


Unwilling Survivor

by SeveralStandingStill (OneWhoTurns)



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: (kinda), Bisexual Female Character, Blood, Canon-Typical Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Dark Humor, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Graphic Depiction of Suicide, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Knifeplay, Knives, Loss of Agency, Masochism, Mental Breakdown, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Behavior, Psychological Trauma, Sadism, Sam (OC) is a disaster bi, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, Survivor OC, Touch-Starved, as one might expect from a suicidal protagonist, as one might expect from certain killers, brief references to Project Awakening, frank pretends to be a survivor, guess who's horny for fear, i swear really guys it's not as dark as it seems, mentions of The Lost Tapes, weird how intimate killing someone can be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 92,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23981872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneWhoTurns/pseuds/SeveralStandingStill
Summary: New Survivor: Samantha Reid: "The Phoenix"Sam wasn't a runner: she was a hider. She was a coward who occasionally lived her life entirely to spite her own vicious thoughts. Years of ups and downs, and now she was here: the place she could only guess was Hell, some purgatory for thinking she could escape life to begin with. Unfortunately, death was far from an escape. She figured that out, after dying. …Many, many times.
Relationships: F.J.S.J. | The Legion/Original Female Character(s), Frank Morrison/Original Character(s), Susie (Dead by Daylight) & Original Female Character
Comments: 183
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first DBD fic. I, uh, haven't actually played the game, but I've watched a heckuva lot of videos and scoured the wiki religiously. (Still deciding to ignore some of that recently released lore, though. You probably know the thing. I'd prefer not to wipe the slate clean.) 
> 
> Chapters will be of varying lengths, and there's no set upload schedule, so… you may do best subscribing so something tells you when the next part goes up.
> 
> It may start off slow, but I promise there will be fun and flirty violence. And knifeplay! (Eventually.) Also, probably bits and pieces of actual emotional bonding. Anyway, summaries and notes are hard: enjoy the fic!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the first trial

[ ](https://onewhoturns.tumblr.com/post/617246218737909760/)

Sam woke up in an unfamiliar house. Mostly vacant, rundown, no doors, and windows either open or plastered over. Everything was too empty, too quiet. She couldn’t think, couldn’t remember anything. Was there blood? The dim light washed everything into unintelligible colors, and there wasn’t enough white light to tell, her clothes were too dark, but there were muddy marks down her pale arms, smeared over the lines of her tattoos, and a rough stiffness to the fabric of her collar. She couldn’t _know_ , but she _felt_ it. Just like she felt the eerie wrongness of whatever this place was. 

There were police lights outside, but no sirens. No voices. She took a few cautious steps toward the open window where the steadily flickering blue and red came from. Sure enough, out on the street, just past the edge of the roof that jutted out below the window frame, was a police car, sitting empty on the abandoned street. It was… weird. Things felt too small. There was an end to the street, which didn’t feel right for the suburbs. It felt like a fraction of a neighborhood. There were too many trees and not enough streetlights. 

A grating buzz of a distant chainsaw was the first noise to break the disconcerting silence. Not long after, a scream. 

Jesus. 

This was… this felt… 

Sam felt her skin humming, a rush of fear sinking through her until her bones felt full of radio static. What was happening? Where was she and how could she get out? She shuffled herself into the corner to peer out of the window at an angle, studying the street below. Hooks? Why the hell were there random hooks on the road? And— was that a generator? A dead generator sitting in front of the house across the street. None of this made any sense. 

Her heart leapt into her throat as she heard the chainsaw again, and spotted movement a couple houses down. A young woman, mostly visible thanks to the electric blue detailing on what looked like a bowling shirt or something, broke into a run. Behind her—

 _Fucking Christ._

Sam knew not to judge people based on looks. Objectively, she’d been taught that. But this guy was _fucked up._ Besides, given that he was wielding a chainsaw and charging at the girl who was obviously terrified of him, Sam didn’t feel guilty for the judgment. The girl was giving him a run for his money, apparently, but it was hard for Sam to focus on that. She felt disconnected. This couldn’t be real. 

After running, dodging, winding her way between obstacles, the girl slammed a wooden pallet down between herself and the chainsaw, and the saw bit into it before stuttering to a halt. The man - the thing? - whatever it was, its off hand held a hammer, and both weapons reared back as a heavy foot stomped at the wood until it splintered and broke. It had given the girl a head start, though. 

_Fuck._ _Oh no no no, shit fuck oh Jesus._

She was headed for Sam’s house. 

Well, ‘Sam’s house.’ She certainly didn’t own it. It didn’t feel like home. It was just a building she was currently existing in. But now the girl was heading this way. She wasn’t looking up. 

Sam hesitated as the girl jogged toward the house. Were they… Was this someone she should talk to? An ally? But an ally toward what, exactly? She didn’t understand it and she didn’t like it. And she didn’t want to talk. 

Once the girl disappeared past the edge of the outer roof, no longer visible, and Sam could hear footsteps downstairs, Sam bit the bullet and made her decision. The window frame was free from any broken glass - like it was made to be stepped in and out of - so Sam silently stepped over it and pressed her back up against the house, crouching. 

As soon as she saw the light greyish siding of the house, she felt like an idiot. She was wearing faded black jeans and a black t-shirt. There was no way she’d blend in out here. But the thing with the chainsaw had turned its attention away as a distant explosion sounded. So at least for now her hiding spot seemed acceptable. It wouldn’t be for long, she knew that. 

The noise from downstairs faded, the girl no longer running, but there was still the quiet noise of feet on stairs, and Sam could sense the body passing by in the hall past the room she’d woken in. Then, from the next window over, there was the noise of metal on metal, and gradually mechanical noises, like— 

Like a generator gradually cranking into gear. 

Dammit. Generator meant noise. And light. And both of those things were bound to get her _seen._

Sam looked around, trying to find a better place to hide. 

There was plenty of grass and bushes down on the ground, but— well, there was also some _psycho with a chainsaw_ , so she didn’t feel particularly jazzed about that option. What about up?

Sam turned her attention to the house again. The siding didn’t look particularly promising. But there was a roof above it. It would be much harder to see up there from the street. And harder to reach. Was there a way onto the roof? 

After giving up on the very open window she’d come through, Sam spotted the downspout on the corner of the roof, the brackets holding it to the siding. That was something. And right next to it, the closed window that had been plastered over on the inside. They were too close together, it felt too contrived, but she shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. It was just another set of footholds, perfectly placed at angle. 

Casting another nervous glance toward the street, but finding it hard to hear very far with the consistent distraction of engine noises from the generator, Sam threw caution to the wind. She grasped at the window frame with one hand, the downspout in the other, and scrabbled her Docs for purchase, pulling herself up. The effort was more grueling than she’d hoped, and she cursed herself for never actually going to a climbing gym. Her breath came heavy but she sandwiched her lips between her teeth until she tasted blood, unwilling to make a sound. The generator was getting louder, anyway, like there were more _things_ to make noise now. How did generators work? Motors? Pistons? 

Fingers gripping onto the edge of the roof, Sam’s foot found the perfect hold to haul herself up. There was a loud scrape of metal as she knocked against the downspout, but she made it onto the roof. It wasn’t as flat as she’d hoped. But there were some kind of weird flaps of shingle tiles and— maybe a chimney or something? Whatever it was, it would give her a place to brace and offer cover. Sam had won enough games of hide and seek as a kid to know that people rarely looked up, anyway. She was halfway up the pitched roof when her heart lurched into high gear, beating loud in her ears. 

The work on the generator faltered, there was a sort of thunk-chime, and then the work noises stopped, even as the generator itself continued to chug along noisily. When Sam risked a glance down, she spotted the edge of a humped shoulder as it disappeared under the roof she’d just climbed up from. The thing with the chainsaw was going into the house. Her heart rate was rising. A cold sweat broke out on her skin, and all she could do was focus on breathing. Tiny tiny steps. Minuscule. As light as she could manage, inching toward cover. 

No, this was stupid. She needed to stop moving altogether. Freeze. Pretend she wasn’t here. He wouldn’t climb up to get her. She’d be fine. 

_‘Fine.’ Not going to be fine. This isn’t a situation where you end up ‘_ ** _fine_** _,’ Sam._

The noise from the generator room was suddenly loud again, the sound of someone running. Great. Well— not great, but it was louder than her. A distraction. 

Her heartbeat was so fucking _loud._ She could hardly think. The noise from the house sorted itself into a narrative. The girl, running. The thing, chasing. Feet on stairs. Momentary revs of a chainsaw, but never fully starting up. No space?

Sam’s breath froze in her chest as the scrambling feet got closer, and then she heard the girl vaulting out of the window she’d taken onto the roof. There was a shadow— so the lights were on, the generator fully operational. Midway through her vault, the girl let out a scream of pain, and Sam watched her clutching her side as she ran to the edge of the roof and just… jumped off. That couldn’t be healthy. 

Then again, it was probably far healthier than sticking around, as the next figure to step over the window ledge and onto the roof was the thing with the chainsaw, pausing to resituate its hold on a now bloodied hammer. 

Terror. Pure terror - like a syringe straight to the nervous system - had Sam on a knife’s edge. She didn’t dare move, scared to make a sound. But maybe she needn’t have worried, because the thing had drawn blood. He had an injured target, and as soon as he was done with the brief weapon adjustment he ran right off after her, dropping to the ground as well. Then the chainsaw revved.

Sam felt bad for the girl. She did, really. But there was a lot of relief, as well, to not be the one being chased. Sam wasn’t a runner; she was a hider. Which is exactly what she did. As soon as the chainsaw was loudly grinding away, and the thing had taken off across the street to chase the girl, Sam finished her climb and settled herself into a crook on the roof. 

For a moment, she paused.

**_You should help her._ **

No. No she shouldn’t, helping would only get her killed. 

**_They need your help._ **

They? Who the hell was they? There was one girl, and she was already injured. If Sam hid long enough, the thing would leave. He’d never seen her. She was safe as long as she stayed put. 

There was another scream. Her gut was churning, like it was entirely made of unease. She wasn’t leaving. Hiding was safe.

Finally, she convinced herself to stop looking over the edge and duck her head down behind the makeshift blind of the roof again. It felt like the perfect hiding spot. All the windows facing this side of the roof from the next door house were plastered over. She was tucked behind shingles that almost matched with the pattern of her faded black denim. She tucked her arms into the sleeves of her t-shirt, shifting it around to put the very distinct wonky smiley and text on her back. She should turn it inside out, get the yellow printing against her skin and just the black on show to help camouflage better, but it would be a lot of movement to make that switch. Also, it still felt weird to consider undressing while hiding on a roof from a killer with a chainsaw. 

What the fuck was happening. 

Never had she ever considered that those words might—

A shriek pierced the air, but it came from so far away.

There was a feeling like pins on the back of her neck, grabbing her attention, and when she turned her head she had the bizarre experience of seeing something that wasn’t there. What was she even looking at? Just an outline, tunneled through her vision like a dark spot in the air, and in it a silhouette. 

**_Help them._ **

No. 

No, she wasn’t leaving this spot, this spot was safety. She shouldn’t even be looking. Too much movement and she’d be visible. Hide. Just hide.

Her heart had calmed. That had to be good. She could finally try to make sense of what was happening. 

Another loud noise, like before: a thunk and chime. Another black spot in her vision, Sam rapidly blinking away the image of an engine— no, a generator. What the hell was with the generators?

 **_Two down. Three to go. Help the_ **—

What the fuck. These thoughts weren’t hers. These instincts made no sense. She blocked them out forcefully, eyes shut tight as she jammed her mind onto a different train of thought. Sam tried to think, tried to remember how she’d gotten here. 

She’d been mad. And hopeless. She’d been frustrated and angry and desperate and—

_Blood in the water. An onslaught of thought. She’d been trying but… failing. And there were no more answers. Everything was too much, and she held the only answer._

Again, her heartbeat spiked, and the memories faded before they could really get their footing. She heard the chainsaw revving. It was far below, on the ground. She was safe on the roof. It was the only safe place, and she wasn’t moving. She’d survive this. 

The buzzing moved away again.

Survive _what?_

None of this made any sense. Her brain couldn’t compute it. There were so many missing pieces, all she knew was she didn’t want to die. Not like this. Not by a madman with a chainsaw. 

_What the hell, Sam. Make up your mind. You wanted this._

No, she’d wanted death on her own terms. That’s— 

That had been it, hadn’t it? A razor in her hand.

Screams kept interrupting her jumbled thoughts. Another prick at the back of her neck, but she didn’t turn to see. A fleeting thought of a hook— the hook she’d seen on the street, or something like it. Is that what she’d seen in that spotty image before? That silhouette. When it had moved, had it been lifted onto a hook? 

The frustration was growing. Her whole life was always frustration. Nothing ever made sense. She couldn’t handle it, never been able to handle it, it was all _too much_. 

Another thunk, chime. 

**_Three._ **

Out of five? There was a goal: five generators up and running. But to what end? 

_You’re going to go crazy if you keep trying to make this make sense._

That was fair. It _didn’t_ make sense. Stop trying to force it.

Sam shifted onto her back and stared at the sky. Or tried to. Everything was tree boughs and fog. Darkness. She tried to think of a song or a pattern. Crickets chirped. A distant chainsaw buzzed. Screaming, more screaming. A brief explosion. 

She closed her eyes, counted her breath, let her head fill with numbers repeating in soothing patterns. Forced her body to relax. Every scream set her back, but it wasn’t the time to panic. This wasn’t real. This weird five generator goal would be the end of it. She’d wake up. 

She always woke up. Even when she didn’t want to.

A shockwave thundered from somewhere nearby. Something on the other side of the street. Like a tiny bomb had gone off, making the earth tremble for a moment. 

Another chime.

**_Four._ **

Closer. She was closer to this being over. 

Part of her wanted to get up, to look around, to try to examine where she was, look for another route of escape. She should run. While the thing with the chainsaw was far away, now was the time to run. 

_Safer here. Safer to stay put. If you run you’re visible. Someone will come. They’ll forget and leave. Wait it out._

Honestly, she wasn’t sure what to trust: gut instinct or her own faulty logic. Neither seemed like a good idea. There were no solutions. But she could be patient, for now. Being patient on her own was possible. 

So many screams. Screams, whimpers, panting. Rustling grass and feet on pavement. Chugging generators. Chainsaw. Heartbeat. But here in her little hidey hole she was safe. She was invisible. 

God, fear was exhausting. She had to keep reminding herself it wasn’t real. Maybe it was new, but it wasn’t real. She’d had fucked up dreams before, especially after making an attempt. At least this time she had a little more control over her own actions. She’d wake up. Maybe her parents would know, maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe she’d be hospitalized again. The thought bit at the base of her spine, jarring her. That was _real_ fear. It was a relief to feel the kind of fear that hit so low. She’d been carrying all the tension in her neck and shoulders, developing a headache from her tightened jaw. To have that memory stabbing at her sacrum was almost reassuring. 

She continued to ignore the pinpricks that told her to look one way or another. Another shockwave. 

Then a thunk-chime. A mechanical sounding horn of some sort.

**_Five. Find the exit._ **

Exit? 

Sam’s eyes shot open. 

There was an exit.

Her head turned and she blinked the sudden white spots out of her vision, except— not spots. Silhouettes. Not people, but something else. Maybe, like… mailboxes? The shape wasn’t instantly recognizable, and it faded quickly. But in her head, something told her: **_exit._ **

That was the way out. Her body wanted to run to it. It was like a magnetic draw. But the chainsaw was still revving. Constantly. It was somewhere off to her left. There was another noise to the right, from where one of the silhouettes had been. The thing with the chainsaw moved _fast._ She wouldn’t look - didn’t dare look - but she heard it traveling from left to right. The other noise paused. Sam couldn’t figure out what she was hearing. Silence for a while. More saw noises, more traveling. Then the noise to the right again. 

**_Exit. Hatch._ **

There was a sound like cracking rock. Hissing. Something had changed, and time was running out. 

_Hatch._ Where had that thought come from? 

The saw was traveling again, but there was another noise, too. Something beckoning, a static interference over too-open air. It was close. 

**_Run._ **

She couldn’t ignore it anymore. Not when this felt like the end.

Sam pulled herself up to crouch behind her blind, finally looking around again. The sight was another disconnect. Another moment of _this isn’t possible_ before she reminded herself that none of it was, but that didn’t mean it was over. Cracks were forming everywhere, light spilling like lava from fissures in the earth. The world was collapsing. This was the Collapse. 

That noise, though. The open echoing calling. It was so close. 

She tried to listen for it, her eyes flicking over her surroundings like she could pinpoint whatever _something_ was making the sound. So close. So very close. 

She climbed toward the other side of the roof, the noise getting louder as she crested it. There. On the ground, right off to the side of the house, lined up perfectly with the peak of the roof, the line between front and back of the house. God, it was a long drop. She should climb back down, back into the building, take the stairs to the ground floor. 

The chainsaw revved. Hair on the back of her neck stood on end as it got closer. Sam didn’t have time to look around, but she still did. 

It had seen her. It must have, because it was running at her from the other side of the street. There was no time for safety. It didn’t matter. This wasn’t real. She just had to get out. 

No time. She fixed her eyes on the open hatch, her heartbeat getting faster and faster, the killer getting closer. 

She jumped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Questions? Concerns? Drop a comment! Leave an emoji!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the campfire

“Who the fuck are you?”

Sam stumbled over her own feet. Was she running? When had she started running? Well, she wasn’t anymore, at least, tumbling over herself in the tall grass, banging her elbow into the hard ground as she fell and sucked in a tight breath. 

No more chainsaw noise, just rustling greenery. And the grass itself was soft and inviting. No more heartbeat. She didn’t know where she was, but this place was safe. So Sam let herself sprawl on the ground to breathe. It smelled good. Sweet and green and fresh. Pure. She let her eyes close. 

The footsteps ahead of her stopped, and the same voice, closer than whatever footsteps had just faltered, a nordic lilt to her accent, spoke again. “Hey. I asked you a question.”

Something nudged Sam in the ribs. She rolled over. 

The girl looking down at her looked pissed. In fact, she looked like _pissed_ was her baseline emotion. An asymmetrical jagged haircut under a grey beanie, a biker’s jacket, and dark jeans that almost resembled Sam’s apart from the large patches above ripped knees. Then again, based on the activity that Sam was… 90% sure they’d all just been participating in… maybe that was a side-effect rather than an aesthetic choice. Her knees looked damned banged up. 

“Who the fuck are you?” she repeated.

Sam just looked at her. She wasn’t quite sure if she _could_ talk at the moment. It felt like her dream-self should be doing that on its own, if it was going to happen. That’s generally how dreams went. Besides, how the hell was she supposed to answer that? She was… just Sam. Samantha Reid. 20 year old college dropout. Bogged down with depression and going nowhere with life. Complete and utter failure. No great answer there. 

“Nea, back off.” The voice was calmer, gentler. Sam couldn’t quite see them through the tall grass until a dark-skinned girl stepped into view. She was shooting a look at the mean one from under blue-framed glasses. It wasn’t exactly sharp, but it seemed to carry some weight, or maybe the other girl just respected her enough to honor it. “She might not have even shown up ‘til now.”

“What, just three of us were in that trial? I doubt it.”

Um… no. Sam had definitely been there the whole time. 

“Can we save this for the Campfire?” That was a new voice, and Sam could assume it belonged to the girl with the weird bowling shirt. The bright blue piping that had been so visible even from afar. But how could she have survived the brutal bludgeoning she’d gotten with that hammer? And the chainsaw? How had any of them survived the chainsaw?

The girl with the glasses kept her eyes on beanie-haver (Nea?) before sticking a hand down at Sam. “Come on, we’re almost there.”

Well, what else could she do? As much as she wanted to just lie in the grass for a minute, there was an expectation. And the girl seemed… nice enough. Sam didn’t want to cause drama, either way. Better to fly under the radar. Better to go along with it. So she took the offered hand and was hauled up onto her feet. As soon as she was up, she let go. She wasn’t a fan of physical contact. 

And they headed off, the bowling-shirt girl (or maybe not bowling shirt, now that she was close enough the team logo said _Laser Bears_ and didn’t exactly scream ‘bowling’ for theme, there) was leading the way to… somewhere.

So, four women. All of them seemed to be late teens to mid-twenties. Was this some kind of weird Final Girl contest her dreams had cooked up? Weird. 

“I’m Claudette, by the way.” 

Sam didn’t take the offered hand, but shot a tight-lipped smile at the girl as they walked. 

“…Not very chatty, are you?”

Her mouth felt stuck shut, actually. Like she’d been so busy trying not to make a noise, it had become habit. She just offered a one-shouldered shrug and an almost sheepish look. Just felt weird. Sometimes she just felt weird talking. Once she had something to do with her mouth, something that got it open, she could talk again. 

…Oh Jesus, not like that. A drink or something, Christ. 

“We’re almost at the Campfire. You can meet the rest of the crew, depending on who’s still around, and we’ll get you settled in. We don’t… well, we don’t really _have_ to sleep, but it’s nice. We have a whole little camp set-up going. There’s some permanent housing, too, and some of the guys have been building some more, when they’re up for it.”

So there were guys, too. And a place to stay. They don’t need to sleep? …No, that… that makes sense. Don’t need to sleep in a dream. 

_And this is just a dream. A very long, very lucid dream._

* * *

“Jesus. Fuck, what happened to you?” 

Sam shot the speaker a wary look and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The guy screamed _douche_ from a mile away. Too old - or maybe not old enough - to be wearing a fedora, and yet he persisted, and a dumbass lookin’ pastel sweater with little flamingos on it. What a dick.

“Be nice.” The guy got a smack in the chest from the blonde sitting next to him. Ah. She was attractive. Sam cursed her general attraction to girls in plaid who had tattoos. And a beanie, too, over way-too-pretty blonde waves. She looked too happy for… whatever this place was, turning a bright smile on Sam. But even her grin faltered, seeing Sam in the light of the douchebag’s flashlight. “Oh. Honey, you alright?”

What?

Sam looked down at herself, and felt a brief shiver run through her. That was a lot of blood. She hadn’t realized it, because of the dim light, but there was dried blood smeared down her arms, swiped across the thighs of her jeans. It wasn’t fresh or anything. But it was definitely noticeable. She rubbed at her skin, but simple friction didn’t seem enough to clean it. 

“Your shirt’s on backwards.” Another resident of the Campfire, this one a young man, barely out of high school, in a simple shirt and jeans that felt weirdly dated. The hair, too, that was definitely dated. His observation was casual, busy with— beans? Some kind of food in a tin cup. 

Sam checked again, even though she knew he was right. She’d flipped it around while hiding on the roof. Weird consistency for a dream. She tucked her arms into her sleeves to turn it back around. 

“Fuckin’ Christ.”

More blood. Soaked through the front of her shirt. The discoloration wasn’t clear on the black, but the yellow print was smeared with it, dark marks dripped down over Nirvana’s name and logo. That rubbed off a little easier, at least. Still, it was awkward. 

“We don’t usually come in already bloody.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at the comment from Miss Laser Bears, and glanced to Nea. Nea’s knees had been all bloodied up. It’s not like Sam was the only one who’d bled a little. Hadn’t they been injured? Then again, even though she’d seen Laser Bears limping from an injury, there weren’t any marks on her body now. Totally clean. And not limping, either. 

“Yeah, well, she’s been here a while. Didn’t come in bleeding,” Laser Bears answered the unasked question. (Apparently Sam’s pointed gaze hadn’t gone unnoticed, even if her comment had never been voiced.)

The urge to roll her eyes was too strong to resist. 

“Is she… mute?” The blonde was watching Sam, but addressed her question to Claudette as the girl came to the fire and settled down on the bench-like log alongside her. 

“I don’t know.” Claudette looked up at Sam as well, even as the douchebag’s flashlight finally got turned off and put away. “Is she?”

Sam shook her head. 

“Just freakishly silent,” Nea groused, waving a hand dismissively and walking away. When Sam’s gaze followed her, she found a mix of buildings— closer to shacks or cabins than real houses. One (the most advanced, structurally, that seemed most like a real house) looked to be lit from within. When the door opened, the light of a fireplace spilled onto the ground, and fragments of quiet conversation. 

“Ignore her. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Blondie smiled. 

Sam kinda _did_ want to. Or, she wasn’t opposed to it. Just felt like she still had deadmouth. Like waking up; she hadn’t broken the seal. So she stayed silent. But she took the seat Blondie gestured to on the empty log across the fire from her. Hard to resist a cute blonde in plaid. 

“I’m Kate,” the girl introduced with a short wave. “This is Ace. And Steve. And I’m guessing you already met Nea, Claudette, Min.” She pointed out each person in turn, and it was a nice gesture, even if Sam wasn’t exactly in the right headspace to appreciate it. 

Her head was kinda… empty. Foggy. Nothing felt quite real, but that was okay. It was limbo. It was a dream. That was the logical way to see things. 

“You’re probably not hungry outside of the trials, but we do have some food.” (Someone else had used that word, _trial._ What did they mean?) 

Kate glanced to Ace, and the guy - helpfully? Was it really helpful, or just obnoxious? - put his fingers to his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. “Tapp. Tappster!”

The door Nea had gone through opened again, a middle-aged dark-skinned man stepping out with a scowl. “Ace, keep your goddamn voice down, there are people trying to sleep.”

“Some chow for the new girl.”

Sam’s gaze flicked away to avoid the gaze of _Tappster_ , feeling vaguely mortified by the less-than-positive attention Ace was drawing her way. She wasn’t a fan of attention if it wasn’t positive. Not when she wasn’t in control of it. 

The door closed, then reopened a moment later, and the guy walked over to the campfire with a tin cup like the one Steve was holding, a spoon clanking around the rim as he shoved it into Sam’s hands and left. 

“Your arrival has us a little on edge,” Kate explained, by means of excuse for Tapp’s curt manner. “New survivor usually means a new killer, too.”

Sam’s eyes closed, bowing her head and focusing on the warmth of the cup between her palms. Stew. It smelled good. It made a little sense. Far more than talk of killers. 

“You don’t… by any chance, know what might have come with you?”

Sam took a deep breath. This was all insane. She was insane. Some combination of medication side effects were kicking in, giving her vivid lucid dreams, that was the explanation. She was imagining things. She picked up the spoon and finally opened her mouth, taking a taste. It was good. Surprisingly good. Meaty, hearty, overall very satisfying. Could she usually eat in dreams?

“No clues? No idea what sort of monster followed you into this place? Whatever may have made your life a living hell before you got sucked into this?”

Sam glanced up at Min, blinking as she swallowed. “Aside from crippling depression? No. No clues.”

“She speaks.” Ace smirked. 

“Not in the mood,” Sam deadpanned, returning her attention to her stew. “Good soup, by the way.” The compliment was addressed more toward Kate than anyone else, though she didn’t know exactly who to credit for the cooking. 

“I think Bill was on mess today. Unless he got summoned.” Kate glanced to Steve, who shook his head as he took another bite of his own meal. “So I guess Bill is who you can thank.”

“Mm.” Sam nodded.

“So what’s your name?” Claudette asked, her own arm looped around Kate’s waist. Were they an item? Sam wasn’t big on casual touching, personally, and her bi-dar was already incredibly wonky; people touching each other platonically just made things more confusing. 

“Sam.”

“As in _Son of?”_

That motherfucker. Sam looked at Ace, unamused but unbothered. Her tone was flat, but unhurried. “As in Samantha.” What a time to joke about killers. She might have appreciated it, actually, if it hadn’t been coming from a douchecanoe in a fedora. “Reid,” she added. Like it mattered. Names didn’t matter. It wasn’t real. That thought spread a contented fog over her vision, shrugging off her annoyance at the guy wearing sunglasses at night. She took another bite, watched the cup. 

“Where were you during the trial, Sam?” Min fixed her with a steady gaze, and Sam felt it even if she wasn’t going to meet it. 

“Hiding.” A smaller bite, all liquid. Her tone slipped to something more cynical: “In case you missed it, there was a psycho with a chainsaw running around; I didn’t want to risk being sighted.” It was probably kind of rude to up and say it like that, but she didn’t look up for any reactions. 

“You can’t do that again.”

 _Excuse me?_ Sam bit her tongue. She had woken up to the sounds of maniacal chainsaws. She’d done what was smart. She’d survived. But she was smart enough to avoid that confrontation for now. Min seemed determined, and assertive, but not outright malicious. Someone that other people would probably listen to, which meant she wasn’t someone to get on the bad side of. “It felt like my only option.”

“You stayed in a locker the whole time?” Claudette asked, mildly. Sam wondered if she was running interference for an argument that hadn’t started yet. That’s how it felt, at least. 

“I was on the roof.”

Sam continued to eat for a few more spoonfuls before realizing that the rest of them had gone silent. 

“…We can do that?” Steve asked.

Looking up, Sam’s dark eyes flitted from one confused face to another. “I mean, it was kinda loud, but Min was working on a generator. I climbed up the gutter. …What, you guys never tried it?” 

Like she was reading Sam’s mind, Claudette murmured, “ _Someone_ must have.”

“I don’t think it was an option.” Min was watching Sam with that level gaze, reading her. It was disconcerting. “…Looks like you’ll be good for something, at least.”

Rude. “Well, sorry I was busy cowering in fear from a lunatic.” She kept the acid from her voice, but it still came out clipped. 

“Hiding is fine sometimes,” Claudette mediated, “but you can’t hide the whole trial.”

Sam clutched at the tin cup, hard. This wasn’t _helpful_. “Can someone _please_ just tell me what’s going on. The last thing I remember I was— I don’t remember.” Maybe waking up in that empty house. “I don’t know where I am and I don’t know what’s going on and-” Her pulse was speeding, but she was running on anger rather than fear. Anger was always better than fear. “Just _tell me._ I hate when this happens, why can’t dreams just _make sense_ -”

“This isn’t a dream.” The voice came from somewhere over her shoulder, and when Sam turned she found a young man glowering at her. They didn’t look alike, but he gave off massive Nea vibes. Like he was constantly at least a _little_ bit pissed off. Then again, maybe it was the topic of conversation. 

“Well it’s definitely not real,” Sam argued. She didn’t even know why she did it: of course people in dreams would argue it wasn’t a dream. “I know I’m dreaming. I— I just know it.” Dream logic was the only thing that could explain sudden appearances and disappearances in the middle of actions. In a moment of clarity, she turned back to the fire. “See—”

“Sam!”

But her hand, thrust into the campfire, was unharmed, despite Kate’s protest. It felt hot, maybe? Temperature wasn’t as extreme as it should be (another point in the ‘it’s all a dream’ column). No burned skin, or singed hair. “I told you, it’s a dream.”

“No, it’s the Campfire.”

“Why are you saying that like it’s something special?” There was an inarguable capitalization in his tone. 

“We don’t cook on the Campfire. It can’t burn you.”

“…Because it’s a dream,” Sam finished for him. 

The guy shook his head. “Because it belongs to the Entity.”

…Well that was a whole new can of capitalized words. “The… Entity.” Her voice was skeptical, but she let the words hang, hoping for a response, for some kind of explanation. 

“The thing that runs this… _universe_.” There was an inaudible _I guess_ that came along with that estimated statement. “The God. The being that brought us here. What picks us up and drops us into its games.”

Sam’s gaze flickered over the guy’s features, trying to interpret his words. “What do you mean games?”

“The trials.” It was Claudette. “Four survivors, one killer. If we fix five generators we can open the exit gates and escape. And we just try not to get hooked.”

Hooked. The hook on the street. 

“How did you miss this happening?” Min asked, that touch of annoyance back again, even if she didn’t seem truly _angry._ “We all get auras, you should’ve known when people got hooked that match. Didn’t you feel when the gens popped? When Claud and Nea got sacrificed?”

Things were starting to connect, rewiring thoughts and memories, putting words to her experiences. It didn’t mean they made sense. “Sacrificed?” Sam kept her tone reserved, disconnected from the meaning that word implied. 

“Bigass claws coming down from the sky. Grabbing their mangled little bodies to munch up for all that tasty pain and suffering?”

“Min.” Claudette looked hurt, and Min’s eyes skirted away as her arms crossed over her chest, but she stopped talking so callously. 

“But you’re here.” Sam directed her words to Claudette, instead of risking pushing any of Min’s buttons. Claudette was patient.

“It’s… kind of routine. The sacrifice is…” She trailed off, and Kate’s arm tightened around her comfortingly, as Claudette’s face went blank for a moment. “It’s bad. It’s like…” 

Her silence alone sent a chill up Sam’s spine, the lack of words leaving room for whatever unspeakable horror she couldn’t name. 

Claudette seemed to snap back into it. “But then you’re back in the fields. Back to the Campfire. We have each other here.” 

“So… you died.”

“No one ever truly dies.” Jesus, could the guy just come and sit down? The eerie brooding from afar thing was making Sam’s neck hurt to turn and look. 

She wanted to argue with him. But no one else was, and… it didn’t feel worth it. She just needed some time to adjust. Or to sleep. To wake up, maybe. Things would be better with some time. 

After a moment of hesitation, looking at Broody Boy, Kate turned her attention to Sam again. “Let’s find you a place to sleep. Maybe it’ll be morning, soon.” Maybe? But there were too many questions, and Sam didn’t have the attention to take in all the answers at the moment. So she let the blonde lead her away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So whaddya think so far? Type a li'l somethin' in that comment box, friend. Windows+. for an emoji keyboard.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the second trial

“…Ff…” Sam quickly stifled any sound she was about to make. 

She’d been asleep. Or, maybe she’d been trying to sleep. She’d been asleep within her sleep? Regardless: she’d been at the camp, on a threadbare spare mattress (less of a mattress, more of an oblong flat pillow) in a lean-to that was mostly empty. She was the newest survivor: everyone else already seemed to have found a place, or at least people they wanted to bunch up with when sleep came. She’d ended up sharing space with a journalist named Zarina. She hadn’t gotten much more information than that. Sam hadn’t felt ready to process much more information, and Zarina didn’t seem inclined to push the issue. The general consensus was ‘give her some time to adjust.’

Right about now, Sam was wishing she’d taken more time to learn. 

She was in a building of some kind again, but it wasn’t the suburbs. Definitely not the suburbs. The building itself was a few stories tall, and one side was almost entirely open on grass crowded with stacks of logs, pallets, rocks and trees and brick walls… everything looked dilapidated. The main feature of the building seemed to be… what was it called? Like a giant metal pot. A big-ass pot and pipe thing with all sorts of smaller pipes all over the place. 

**_The Ironworks of Misery._ **

Seriously? These instinctual thoughts that liked to pop into her head sure were unnecessarily foreboding at times. There was a generator in one corner, but Sam hesitated. Generators made noise. She’d liked surviving last trial. She did that by not being seen or heard. So instead of heading to the generator, she followed her winning strategy: head for higher ground. 

Silently, she made her way to the stairs that wound around the edge of the building, that formed a catwalk a floor up. She took the opportunity, alone and unhurried, to slip off her shirt and turn it inside out. She’d always liked the wonky smiley face on this particular Nirvana band tee, but it felt a little fucked up to wear it while being hunted by a killer. And with the shirt inside out she was mostly in black again, and that would help her stealth approach. 

Making her way up, Sam felt weirdly visible thanks to the giant floor-to-ceiling opening on the other side of the… pot thing. Smelting? Is that what happened at an ironworks building? A foundry? She’d never really been one for manufacturing terms. 

On her way, she glanced out any window she came across. There were other structures out there, too. And not too far to one side was a large sheet metal gate in a brick wall that seemed to be surrounding the area. The borders of the trial, maybe? Had there been a wall like that in the suburbs? There had been something out the back of the house she’d hidden on, but no gate in sight.

In the distance she thought she saw movement, but it was far enough away, and there was no heartbeat thudding in her ears, that she felt confident she was safe. For now, at least. And no chainsaw noises, which was… a relief. 

Once she hit the top of the stairs, Sam felt another wave of relief upon finding a smaller room. Cover. More cover, that was good. Or it was until she went through and found an opening to the top of an outdoor stairway. A stairway with no cover whatsoever: she would be so incredibly visible to anyone outside if she were walking up and down that. 

Fine. She’d stay inside. 

There was a brief explosion in the distance, and that black spot in her vision showing someone had fucked up their work on a generator. Almost at the same time came the first scream. Jesus. Screams were the norm here, weren’t they? 

It was less scary this time around, at least. Maybe just having more open space, being high enough that she felt she’d see anything well before it could get to her: there was security in that. 

Sam’s steps were light as she looked around the area, eyes lingering on a trunk. She was awfully tempted to poke around in there, see what she could find. But first she needed to pick a hiding spot. Look high. 

Perfect. 

Nice thick pipes, wider than she was, that she could lay across, easy. And a stack of crates right there that could give her a boost. Excellent. 

Her gaze strayed back to the chest. 

Thunk, chime. One generator done. 

Still no heartbeat pounding in her ears. 

Another scream, male this time, and a pinprick at the back of her neck that pointed her toward a very distant silhouette. It was far away. Now was the time to risk it. 

Quiet as she could manage, Sam lifted the latch of the trunk and began to rummage through it as delicately as possible. She wasn’t entirely sure what would be useful, but it seemed mostly full of rusty bits of scrap. So loud— it felt _so loud_ , Christ. It got to be too much, felt too loud, so she grabbed what looked to be a janky flashlight and tucked it into her waistband. No time to test it now, she should just hide while she could. 

Another chime. Two generators running. 

Who was even here with her? She felt like she should remember, like there had maybe been a second where someone had told her, or she had seen, but she couldn’t place it. She’d figure it out on the way back, maybe. Another scream, and it sounded familiar. One she’d heard the first trial. Claudette maybe?

She was halfway up the stack of crates to get onto the pipes when she noticed the little structure of bones tucked into the corner. Three skulls. 

**_Cleanse the totem. Help them._ **

What was with this constant manufactured instinct to _help them?_ But the prompt itself felt vaguely familiar. Someone had mentioned totems, though they hadn’t fully explained what they were, or really _how_ to ‘cleanse’ them. Sam slid off her perch to kneel beside the collection of sticks, bones, and unlit candles. Okay… cleansing. What exactly did that _mean…_

But once she set her mind to it, it felt like all the steps were laid out for her. Something seemed to guide her hands, dismantling the structure piece by piece steadily, like she was following some unwritten rules. The fact that it came so naturally sent a chill up her spine. That shouldn’t feel intuitive. 

The next scream was much closer, close enough that the tunnel vision indicated a spot she could have easy eyes on if she leaned over the railing of the stairs outside. Hiding time. Well past hiding time, actually. 

It was a couple quick steps up the crates, and then Sam hauled herself up onto the pipes above, wincing at the audible clang of— something, she couldn’t figure out what— that echoed in the space as she took her perch. She immediately climbed just a little higher, onto the pipes that crossed over themselves and seemed to run the length of the building. She wanted to put distance between herself and the spot she’d climbed from. 

Lowering herself to a crawl along the top of the pipes, she looked at her options. Oh that was perfect. A sort of window between the main room and this overlook area, where the pipes squeezed through with just enough space for her to wedge herself in. Sam didn’t mind enclosed spaces when they were safe enclosed spaces. She crawled over and was just passing over into the main room when she spotted the figure below and lowered herself flat on the pipe. 

She hadn’t recognized them. It wasn’t like the thing with the chainsaw, there was no audible weapon noises. No loud heartbeat, and no glowing red light emanating from them. They _could_ be on her side… but she didn’t think so. Her gut said _no._ If she’d taken more time to look, she might have a better idea of why, but she wasn’t willing to risk it. Instead, she’d be silent, still, and pretend she didn’t exist. 

Their steps were quiet, too, just the occasional dim creak from the old metal of the stairs. 

A distant explosion set that pinprick at the back of her neck again, urging Sam to look for where the mistake was, but she resisted. No movement. 

Maybe it _was_ a survivor. 

No, a survivor would be working on the generator on the main floor. 

Sam almost jumped at the sound of a foot kicking the open chest she’d been going through. Below her, to her right. Without moving her head, her eyes slipped in that direction, but she couldn’t see low enough. She might have caught a bit of black fabric, but even that she was guessing at. 

Breathing. She heard breathing. It moved away, toward the back stairs, and Sam tried to analyze what she was hearing. Heavy breathing, somehow muffled and magnified at the same time. _Some Darth Vader motherfucker_ -

There was the sound of bones knocking together. They’d found the cleansed totem. 

Even without the amplified heartbeat, Sam could feel her pulse racing like a hummingbird, thrumming in her throat. It spiked as she felt the reverberation, heard the hollow echoing of metal on metal as something scraped at the other end of the interlocking pipes. 

It was like she’d been dipped in ice water. They knew. They knew she’d climbed up, knew where she was. 

Thunk, chime.

The scrape raised in pitch and disappeared as whatever was against the pipe was quickly pulled away. The attention had been drawn off. Third generator up and running. 

Sam was barely breathing. Every inhale took fifteen seconds. Open-mouthed. As quiet as humanly possible. 

Another explosion, this one closer. That _must_ have been enough to draw the killer off. Was she imagining feet on the stairs outside? 

Three generators down, two to go. Then the exit would open. She’d already been informed she was insanely lucky to have found the hatch so easily her first trial. Don’t bank on it. Try to make it out the gates. And she knew where the gates were, too, she’d seen some right outside this building. So how long did she need to give herself to get there? When was the time to leave her hiding spot and book it for the exit? Before the last generator? After someone already opened it?

She was supposed to be _helping_ fix the generators, she knew that. At least she’d done something useful this time. She’d found a flashlight. She’d broken the totem thing. Not completely useless. And still alive, so that should count for something. 

Carefully, she considered her escape route. The bad part about having climbed so far over is that now she’d have to either back out the way she’d come or drop down onto the catwalk below, and that could get noisy. And then she’d have to hightail it to the exit. She hadn’t gotten a good look at the ground between the foundry and the gate; was it easy to traverse? Open? _Too_ open? She didn’t know what the area looked like, or how to use her surroundings to her advantage, aside from the climbing. She should ask the other survivors. Why hadn’t she tried to get more information from them before this trial started? 

_Because you didn’t expect to do another trial so soon. You just got out of the last one._

Fair, Sam. Good point. 

Another thunk, chime. Fourth generator up. That was fast.

The smart choice would be a slow retreat back to where she’d climbed up, then a careful observation of her surroundings. As quiet as possible she’d have to get to ground floor, make it outside, and maybe try just sticking to the wall by the gate. Stay low, hide, maybe crawl in the grass. Black clothes could help her blend in. (Sam wished she’d worn long sleeves. Her pale arms would be too obvious.)

There hadn’t been any shockwaves like there had been with the chainsaw killer (what had they called him? the hillbilly). From what she’d gathered, those had been the sacrifices. This seemed to be going better than the last trial, then, if no one had been sacrificed. Fewer screams, too. No heartbeat constantly seizing her chest with fear. Things were easier the second time around. 

It was silent again, just distant noises of generators going. The chugging would’ve been comforting, if Sam didn’t have the nagging feeling that they were hiding all the audible warnings she should be listening for. But they covered her own noise, as well. Speaking of which…

Carefully, she raised herself up enough to start a slow and steady move backward, toward where she’d climbed up. Jumping down, landing on the sheet metal of the catwalk, would be way too loud. Better to be cautious. 

It was much harder backing out than getting up there to begin with. 

_Slow and steady._ Always slow and steady. Sam wasn’t exactly known for patience in her everyday life, but she took way too long to do things right, if she was the only one watching. Typical perfectionist hyperfocus, on occasion. 

Her eyes were fixed on her hands, on the pipe below her, as she gradually slid backward to the start, breath even and mind occupied with the task.

The grip on her ankle made her shriek involuntarily as it hauled her back, and she couldn’t get hold of the too-large pipe. The breath was knocked out of her as she smacked against the metal floor, her heartbeat fast and deafening, a stab of pain cracking into the back of her skull as she tried to pull free of—

_Oh come on._

Sam’s brows knit together, scowling. What kind of cheap ass store-bought Halloween ghost mask _bullshit_ was—

 _KNIFE fuck that’s a knife oh God oh shit_ —

Before the killer could bring it down on her, Sam fumbled for the flashlight she’d tucked into her waistband, pointing the beam straight into its - his? - eyes. Or into his mask, at least. 

The killer paused, turning his face away, and Sam scrambled back, on her feet and sprinted as fast as she could to get the hell away from the thing with the big stabby knife. Knife bad, running good. 

She was still several feet from the ground when her fear got the better of her - heartbeat still painfully loud - and she vaulted over the side of the railing, heading for cover among the debris strewn across the open land. Which way was the gate? She was panicking, couldn’t think straight, and all thoughts of strategy seemed to have dissipated with the first hint of real, true, _immediate_ danger. She hadn’t realized there could be something scarier than seeing a hillbilly with a chainsaw out for blood. Having someone grab her and almost stab her— having a killer _touch_ her— definitely was. 

Sam hadn’t realized just how safe she’d been last trial. 

Her thighs were aching, but she was still running. 

“Slow down,” someone hissed, and her steps faltered. The voice came from a guy crouched by a slowly cranking generator. _Dwight._ Names. “You leave marks when you run,” he whispered. “If you’re going to do that, at least lead him in a different direction.”

What? Marks?

Dwight’s eyes slipped off of her and he pulled out a flashlight a lot like hers, pointing it at something behind her in a brief flash before he took off running. 

She shouldn’t have turned to look. Should have just _run_ like he did. She was so _so_ stupid to turn back. But she did. 

Of course, she _did_ run, as soon as she caught sight of the ghost mask again. But her lead was inconsequential. She’d hardly taken three steps before she felt a bolt of pain searing into the back of her shoulder and she screamed, dropping to the ground in one hit. She thought she’d be stronger. Why didn’t she feel stronger?

Her heartbeat was so loud and so fast, and her back _burned_ , a throbbing ache and a sharp pointed sting all at once. Stabbed. She’d actually been _stabbed,_ holy fuck, this was a first. 

Like it would help, Sam reached out an arm, trying to crawl forward on her belly. 

There was the slightest movement ahead to her left, and Sam realized Claudette was crouched behind a wooden crate, blending into the shadows. The shake of her head was minuscule. _Don’t crawl._ Why not? The other girl’s expression was unclear as she closed her eyes pointedly. Sam couldn’t figure out what she was trying to say. What, meditate? Now really didn’t feel like the time for—

Sam yelped at the hand picking her up by the waistband of her jeans, hauling her over a sturdy shoulder. “Wh— fuck you, you— _ow_ , _fuck!”_ Her voice was breaking, angry and in pain, and she kicked booted toes into the guy’s chest, barely seeing a thumbs up from Claudette. What, like she’d planned this? Or was that a ‘good for you, keep fighting’ kind of thumbs up? The other survivor crept back to the hidden side of the generator. 

If it _was_ a ‘keep fighting’ thumbs up, Sam was all for it. Admittedly, most of her wrestling experience had been under much more pleasurable circumstances, but she _liked_ fighting. Not when there were real blades, but she didn’t have much to lose. The guy wanted to kill her anyway. Her options were to get away, try to convince him not to kill her (which felt pretty pointless at the moment), or accept defeat. 

For someone who’d been so eager to die at various points in her life, Sam was awfully powered by spite. If he was going to kill her, she wasn’t about to go down easy. 

“Let— go— of me—” She kicked and jabbed her fists against his back, aiming for what she thought might be the kidneys, but it didn’t seem to be doing any good. “You _motherfucking cocksucker,_ I swear to _fuck_ —” She couldn’t finish the threat, her voice cut off by a grating screech of pain, tears of pain and anger springing to her eyes. She couldn’t breathe. It hurt so _fucking_ much. Her hands grasped shakily at the metal, head spinning as she realized the hot wet substance on it was blood— _her_ blood. Impaled, on a hook, like so much meat. 

Sam whimpered, eyes shut tight as she tried to pull herself up or _something_ — _anything_ to lessen the pain of her own body dragging against the metal pierced through her shoulder. “ _Fuck_ —” she screamed again, throat shredded raw with the force of it, her feet knocking back against the post behind her like she could get a foothold. “I fucking—” Another scream: anguish and anger. 

“You’re new.”

Her face was screwed up, teeth grinding with effort, glaring frustratedly and having trouble understanding the modulated voice coming from the ghost mask. “What?” She couldn’t breathe right. She couldn’t see clearly, either, and blinked away tears, eyes darting around frantically. 

For a second she caught sight of someone. Dwight. Standing behind the killer. He held up his hands, fingers outstretched as if to say _stop._ Stop _what?_ Why couldn’t they just _talk_ , why couldn’t they just _tell her_ what she was supposed to do?! (Of course they couldn’t, she knew they couldn’t, but it still frustrated her.) Sam tried to make herself stop struggling. It was hard. Involuntary twitches and tremors made her wince and cry out again. 

“You’re new,” the killer repeated, sounding far too casual. “And that climbing trick, that’s a new one.”

Sam closed her eyes tight, trying to focus on breathing, on not just screaming and crying and having her mind shatter with the pain. Moving less was better. Her breath was shallow and shaky, every exhale an unwanted whimper, but it almost felt like… could a body get used to pain like this? It shouldn’t be able to. 

She forced her mind to the ghost’s words. That was how the other survivors had reacted, too. “What, no one— fucking— climbed trees as a— _fuck-_ ” she let out a shaky moan of pain, unable to continue with her backtalk. There was a short tug at a lock of her hair, but Sam was too focused on not screaming to open her eyes. 

“Another ginger, too.” 

“Get th-” Exhale. Inhale. Breathe. “-ffuck off’me you— fuckkig-” It was so hard to make words happen when all she wanted to do was scream. But she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t go down without a fight, not yet.

“Oh, I should— give me a sec, Annie.” 

_ANNIE?_ He was going to call her fucking _Annie?!_

Her brow was furrowed, teeth gritted and jaw tight, utterly focused on managing the pain, when she heard a sound like… wait, that wasn’t right… 

A click and flash, and Sam’s eyes opened in confused - disgusted - surprise. Sure enough, he held a digital camera. Dated as fuck, but apparently functional. He was looking at the screen - what, checking the _quality?_ \- and Sam scoffed with all the breath she could muster. “You fucking cr-” Her words slid into a whimpering cry, wincing as he tugged her head back with a hand in her hair, her face flaming with anger and just a little humiliation as the camera flashed again. 

“There’s that hook face I was lookin’ for. Beautiful.” 

She couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes. _Fuck you fuck you fuck you_. Instead she focused on breathing, on keeping her body steady, lessening the pain of struggle, as she seethed in her mind. 

A gloved hand slapped lightly against her cheek. “GG, Annie. Have fun with Daddy Long Legs up there.”

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

She wasn’t sure how much longer she hung, impaled on the hook, feeling heat building around her. It couldn’t have been long. The ghost was barely gone before someone had their arms around her middle, lifting her up off of the hook, and she stifled a cry of pain, hunching over and nearly falling back onto the ground, blinking tears out of her eyes as she looked to her savior. Ah. So that’s where Dwight had gone. 

“No time for pain, you’ll heal up in a minute, we have to get to the exit.” 

“I can’t—” She could barely think, the pain was freshly stabbing through her shoulder again. 

“You can. You don’t have a choice.” 

When had they even finished the fifth generator? But she knew it was done, even if she wasn’t sure _how_ she knew. That intrusive thought masquerading as her own, that had taken up residence in the back of her mind. 

**_Find the exit._ **

“I—” She couldn’t find the words. He was right, she didn’t have a choice. 

“Claudette will take care of it, Meg is running Ghostface around by the other exit. Come on.” 

He sounded assured, and that was enough. He knew what he was doing, Sam didn’t have to do anything but follow a simple ‘go there’ command. No thought, no puzzle solving, just gritting her teeth and getting from here to there. 

Her jaw creaked and ached with the force of holding herself steady as she limped to the exit, but she made it. 

Sure enough, once the switch was _finally_ pulled (it took _so long,_ holy hell), Claudette paused on the other side of the opened gates with a roll of bandages in hand. “Get down.” Sam willingly obeyed, and felt the other woman wrapping the bandages around under her arms to criss-cross over the spot Sam had been so gleefully impaled. It made a huge difference. And it seemed to go by quickly. Midway through, Sam realized Dwight had a hand on her back as well, somehow helping with the process. She didn’t particularly like all the touching, but she wasn’t exactly about to complain. She’d had a fucking _hook_ through her. She could suffer a little human touch. 

The heartbeat was back. 

“I thought we were out the—”

Claudette grabbed her hand, “Not yet we’re not,” and she tugged Sam further out the exit.

Her last sight was of Dwight avoiding a wildly swinging knife, and of another redhead dodging around the ghost’s form, and then things went all foggy.

* * *

She was running again, back in the tall grass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say, Danny is another one of my fave killers for personality. I mean, I guess I just love a sense of humor. And that guy is such a fuckin' troll, I love it.  
> Anyway. 
> 
> Thoughts? I had a lot of fun with this one, and that picture maaay possibly come into play later as well. (It does, I've already written it.) 
> 
> Drop a comment! I'm always looking for reactions, and this was one I really enjoyed writing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after the second trial

There was no hole in her shirt. 

There should be a hole in the fabric, right? She’d had a fucking _meat hook_ through her. But there was no evidence of that. Tucked into the corner of her lean-to, her flashlight pointed at the roof to diffuse a little light all around, Sam pulled off her shirt (which had somehow been turned right side out again once they’d left the trial) and examined her skin as well.

No scar. She could feel a phantom pain through her chest, but there was no mark at all. Reaching around her ribs, there was no wound from being stabbed in the back, either. The pain was fading, but she hadn’t imagined it. …Had she? Reality felt wrong. She would’ve expected to wake up after such intense pain, but she hadn’t. So _was_ this real, then? Was she really trapped in this place? With… this _Entity_ thing?

The dried blood on her arms was back, even though she thought she’d wiped some of it off at some point before the last trial. It was as though every time she came back to the Campfire she was returned to her starting state. Maybe that was the truth of it. That’s how the dead came back to life. The effects of the trial were undone, but the memory remained? But then, she’d come out with the flashlight. So maybe there were some things that broke that rule. …It was all too complicated. 

Letting out a short breath, Sam licked at her thumb and started wiping at the smears of blood on one forearm. She stiffened, feeling a ridge against the pad of her finger. Shifting into the light, she touched it again. 

A scar. Four inches, straight down her wrist. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. 

It felt familiar, like several pieces to a puzzle. But not every piece. 

Sucking on her dry thumb to wet it, she wiped at the other wrist as well, to find an almost-matching scar, wobblier, angled at one end and skating across the base of her palm. It was a distant memory. 

_Blood in the water. An onslaught of thought._

That hadn’t been the end, though. Like the times before, it hadn’t worked. 

_She’d been trying but… failing. And there were no more answers. Everything was too much, and she held the only answer._

Sam’s fingers hesitated, then rose to her throat. 

Under the mess of plain cheap chokers, there was another thin raised line.

So was that where she was, then? 

Had she succeeded? 

Was this Hell?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is a little backstory. Probably the closest to a lore entry on Sam, but no explanation of her perks yet (though if you haven't picked up on her primary mechanic, you probably should have). She's called the Phoenix for a reason. ^^ (And yeah, one of her perks is actually called Unwilling Survivor; that hasn't come up in the writing process, but it will.)
> 
> Thoughts? Questions? Concerns?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHARACTER INFO| Samantha Reid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (as tagged, tw for self-harm/suicide)

Sam had wanted to die. 

That had been the goal, two years ago: to go to sleep and never wake up. Flights of angels sing thee to thy rest, etc. But it hadn’t worked. 

She’d tried more than once, actually. Once by hanging, once by pills, once by razor. The first, at seventeen; leaning into the rope around her neck, she’d blacked out and woken up on the floor, no one any the wiser, with an empty noose on the crossbeam. Sam hadn’t told anyone. She’d gone back to therapy. That helped for a while.

The second time, at eighteen, she’d taken pills. A lot of pills. She’d been gradually falling into a rut at college; off of her own medication for a month, and was crashing hard, a mess of emotions and hopelessness, and she’d given up. Too many pills. She’d taken everything she could, hoping that it would be her last night. When she woke up the next day - dizzy and nauseous, delirious - she let the truth of it slip to her roommate, who’d called an ambulance. She’d been forcibly hospitalized. It was horrific. She should’ve learned to never try again. Instead, she learned she couldn’t stand another failure. 

Two years passed. She got better, in a way. Her parents lessened the pressure (or maybe they just stopped caring); she didn’t jump back into school right away, got a job, learned to live a bit. Things were better, until they weren’t. Again, a personal failure, an inability to manage her own medication, and suddenly everything was crashing down around her. Her self harm rarely leaned toward cutting - more prone to impulsive tattoos than razor blades, when it came to punishing herself - but other things had failed. It had been nerve wracking, but her fear was dulled down by overwhelming apathy. Like an out of body experience, the metal sliced into flesh. It stung, it burned, but underneath the pain was a hope that this could finally be the end. 

It wasn’t.

A bathtub full of blood and two freshly scarred wrists, but she didn’t die. It didn’t make sense. It was endlessly frustrating. But another blackout, another wake up, and she was well past the end of her rope. Logically, she shouldn’t be alive. Nothing should’ve kept her alive. She stared at the blade, at the blood in the water, her thoughts rushing on and on until the tide swept over her and she jerked the razor across her throat, a vicious part of her praying with every ounce of spite that it would all be over.

Everything went black.

She woke up in an unfamiliar house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> US suicide prevention lifeline 1-800-273-8255  
> CA suicide prevention service 1.833.456.4566  
> crisis textline: HOME to 741741 (US) 686868 (CA) 85258 (UK) 086 1800 280 (IE)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the first day

There was daylight, eventually. 

Sam wasn’t sure how many trials had happened in the night. She’d had her two, but others may have had none, or maybe more. People were quiet in the morning. 

Correction: most people were quiet. 

“New girl. Time to level up.”

Sam rolled over, squinting in overcast light. She’d thought she might just sleep. All she wanted to do was pretend this wasn’t happening. She didn’t want to think about the hell she may have brought on herself. Burying her hands in the blanket she’d been provided with, Sam tried to burrow low enough to hide her neck. She’d rather not field questions about the scars, which must be far more noticeable in daylight. 

Min was waiting, hands on her hips. “I’m not going to wait for you to fuck up our next trial together. We need you to be a part of this team.”

 _Team._ Sam had never been great with _teams._ Never been sporty, either. Climbing was easy, she did it because it got her where she wanted to be. She didn’t climb rock walls or cliff faces: she climbed to the spot where there was something cool. She climbed to avoid things she didn’t want to deal with. Or she climbed for fun: the top of a playground was a good place to be. It wasn’t a sport. And running wasn’t her forte. But she had a feeling that running would be the goal of the day. 

Sam put it off for as long as possible, stalling and killing time, getting Min to leave her alone for a few minutes, promising to meet her in what was generally referred to as the mess hall (the one established cabin with running water and a kitchen: though where the plumbing or power came from, no one wanted to ask). 

The bed and the blanket were enticing. Like her worst days, she’d rather hide and sleep and hope it all would end. But this was Hell, wasn’t it? It wouldn’t end. And she was tired of other people, passing by her lean-to and shooting looks inside, hesitating like they might come say something. She wanted to roll over and never have to see them. Never have to see anyone. The idea that there was no peaceful rest, no eternal slumber, was… God, it fucked her up. Sam wanted to let her head buzz with static and undo everything. Rewind herself back into the womb, start over. 

In the midst of another attempt to burrow, her hand brushed against fabric that wasn’t the blanket, and she tugged it toward her to examine it. 

Something sparked a tiny ember in her chest. Her thumb brushed back and forth over the denim, tucking her hand inside to dig fingertips into the fleece around the collar. So she wasn’t just limited to shirt, jeans, boots. The denim jacket was a thrift find ages ago, but it had been a staple in her closet since she was in high school. It was comforting, seeing it here. It… Weirdly, it gave her hope. At the very least, it offered some armor. 

She tugged it on, rolling the sleeves down past her wrists, buttoning them and slipping her thumbs out of the cuffs. Her necklaces should hide the throat scar. The jacket would hide her wrists. Her secret could be safe a little longer. 

With a heavy sigh, Sam pulled herself onto her feet. Try not to die. Learn not to die. 

* * *

Surprisingly, it wasn’t just about running. Min started with a rundown of how the generators worked, digging a stick into the dirt by the Campfire to draw out a diagram. The way she talked reminded Sam of her roommate from college (well, the month and a half she’d spent there); she talked like a gamer. 

As they were going through the generator briefing, Sam started to notice a few other survivors (that seemed to be how they all collectively referred to themselves; even she’d noticed an internal narrative that set that role for herself) loitering nearby, taking slight interest. Claudette passed by more than once, like she was trying to make sure Min wasn’t being too mean, but never needed to step in. Min, for her part, was surprisingly… patient may not have been the word. She wasn’t _entirely_ patient. But she had a goal and she was intent on getting Sam there. She encouraged asking questions, and when Sam was as close-lipped as the night before, she offered answers for questions Sam hadn’t asked. And yeah, sometimes that meant repeating herself, or explaining things that Sam already understood, but she’d rather have unnecessary review than not get it. 

They took a break after the generator talk (or ‘gennies’ as Min referred to them), and Sam hesitated. She should say something, should thank the girl for her help. But she didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t great at gratitude. God, that was something she beat herself up about a lot, too: ungrateful. She never appreciated how good she had it. How could she hate her life so much when she had no right to? No one hit her, she wasn’t struggling with poverty, there was no reason for her to be such a complete failure, and yet she was. Useless. Ungrateful. Pointless—

“I wanted to go over our inventory with you.” Sam was pulled out of her self-hate by Dwight, hanging back a few feet away. “There are items we try to find during trials. Things that can help _during_ the trial, and things we try to bring back for camp. You found a flashlight, right?” He didn’t reach for her, just gestured toward mess. Sam was kind of glad for that. Maybe he’d picked up on her aversion to touching. 

Most of the day was spent learning about the trials, and some of the other survivors. There were plenty of things she still didn’t totally get - and plenty of people she barely spoke to - but it was a start. They didn’t have examples for everything, there were no pallets for Sam to practice with, or generators, or hooks to examine, but they made do. 

Even if she wasn’t a fan of running, she kind of liked the little obstacle course some of the survivors had set up. Vaulting made her feel like a badass parkour expert, and climbing up onto the top of the structures, leaping roof to roof over the lean-tos and up onto the mess hall was freeing. There was so much open air. In the trials that wasn’t necessarily a good thing, but here, where it was safe, the openness was liberating. 

She felt… hopeful? It was a feeling Sam had struggled with for ages. Ups and downs, hopeful and hopeless. What, seven years now? The terrible teens hadn’t been kind to her, everything hitting too hard or not at all. A mess of over-emotion and apathy. High highs, low lows. And after every crash there would always be a touch of hope, when she thought she could get better. Another crash was inevitable.

But she’d cling to whatever false hope for now. While she could. Who knew what the night would bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I know, I know, it's not more killers, I apologize. Soon. Very soon. Feel free to complain all you want in the comments xD)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the third trial/meeting legion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no patience. I know I said I was gonna wait. But also… I love this chapter. THEY FINALLY MEET. And I just spent a few hours putting together a fic aesthetic that I love (check the first chapter!), and this chapter is my favorite thing so far, so… here. Have it. xD

Sure enough, come night the fog rolled in. 

Fuck, she’d left her flashlight in her bunk. Other survivors had mentioned bringing items from their personal stashes, or making pseudo-offerings to the Campfire for good luck. When the fog had come, she hadn’t had the clarity of mind to do any of those things. And without intent - or maybe just because it hated her - there was no time. 

She came to her senses in the snow. Immediately, she was grateful to have found (or to have received?) her jacket. Not just because it was warmer, but because the lighter wash worked pretty well in the paler environment. Oh, and hey: there was a generator. And now, Sam actually knew how to do it. 

She still hesitated. First instinct said noise = bad, just like it had the last two trials. But now was the time, before anything got too dire. She had to remind herself she had three allies here with her. She’d survived being hooked once. (The idea of experiencing that again still brought an acidic surge of fear to her throat. But she’d survived it.) 

Crouching beside the engine, she started to work on connecting wires as quietly as she could, adjusting the mess of jointed connectors and rotors and pieces that she’d never have understood without Min’s tutorial earlier. She was about halfway through when she heard the first scream. It was well away from her - farther down the outer wall from where she was - but… Well, Sam never claimed to be brave. 

She abandoned the generator, heading for the large building. It had a roof. She liked roofs. Sneaking in through a half-destroyed wall, she took stock of the place. It looked like a ski resort, or a lodge. Except, like, abandoned either midway through construction or _de_ struction. There were boxes all over the place, planks of plywood, but a fire burned in the middle of an inset conversation pit. Would’ve been kinda a nice place for _urban exploration_ if not for the whole deranged killers thing. Speaking of which, who even was hunting them? 

During her day of tutorials, she’d been warned of a few of the weirdest killer giveaways— watch out for bear traps, for sigils on the ground, for a sort of shrieking or hummed lullaby, things like that. She hadn’t seen or heard any of those so far. And, again, no chainsaw. So she wasn’t entirely sure what she was watching out for. But she hadn’t heard a heartbeat yet, or seen a red light. 

Thunk, chime. First generator done. 

Sam crept up the stairs. Hopefully she’d put enough work in at her starting generator to be seen as slightly more than useless. …Of course, doing half a generator, when they had to do five, and there were only four teammates… Well, at least she’d done _something_. Each trial she was a little more useful than the last. 

There was a scream from somewhere on the other side of the building from Sam. Past it. Nice and far from her. _That’s fucked. Don’t think like that. People are hurting._ Yes, but they weren’t _her_ , so that was good. ( _Fucked._ )

Steps light, Sam peeked into the different rooms along the top floor of the lodge. Finally, she found a porch. It took a little maneuvering, but (after scouring the ground nearby for any sign of red light) she pulled herself up onto the railing and grabbed for the edge of the roof. 

She was halfway up when her heart started to get louder. _Shit._ She bit her lip, kicking against her foothold as she hauled herself up, wincing at the crack of icicles breaking off of the overhang and shattering on something below. Why was it always so _loud_ to get to her high ground? And her heart was faster now, louder. 

After a brief slip on an icy patch, Sam crouched low and moved toward the chimney. The heat would be nice. 

Though it _was_ weirdly… not that cold. For having snow on the ground, and icicles hanging from the edge of the roof? She would’ve expected more biting wind or something, but it was mostly still, and didn’t _feel_ below freezing. Her nose and ears felt a little itchy with cold, but nothing burned like frostbite. Practically tame, for a Hellscape. _Don’t get cocky._ Her heartbeat was getting faster, slower, faster. Someone must be running around in the lodge. Faster meant closer, slower meant further, she would’ve picked up on that even without the lecture. 

She wasn’t visible, right? 

Thunk, chime. Second generator. But the chase was still happening below. Sam shuffled around on the roof, getting sights on the two exit doors. She’d know where to run. 

She heard another crack and shatter of icicles as— someone else climbed onto the roof. They were moving slowly, but she still heard the quickened heartbeat of the chase below. Sam held out a hand for them to stop, putting a finger over her lips. What, like she suddenly knew so much better? But this was the roof, this was _her_ territory. She was the climber. 

The guy raised an eyebrow, looking bemused, but gave a short sarcastic two-fingered salute before nodding and holding still. The heartbeat faded. Sam let out a breath, closing her eyes. 

“You know, I had no idea we could climb up here. It’s really a revelation.” His voice was low, but genial. Too fuckin’ casual for a situation where they were being hunted. 

Sam shot him an annoyed look, and again pressed her finger to her lips. Who the fuck was this guy, anyway? She didn’t recognize him from camp, but there were plenty of people she hadn’t actually spent much time around. Besides, everyone aside from her seemed to have way more wardrobe options, so the letterman jacket was probably something like that. It seemed like they gradually collected them the longer they were stuck here. Something to look forward to, at least. 

_…What the fuck._ Never thought she’d be trying to look on the bright side of Hell. 

The guy’s face split into a smile. “Right. Yeah. Shh, got it.” He nodded, grinning. 

What a fuckin’ idiot. Then again, knowing death was inevitable could definitely make people go a little loopy. Sam’s eyes narrowed, studying him. 

She couldn’t quite place an age. Like many of the survivors she’d met, he was somewhere between late teens and mid-twenties. Dark hair, light skin, a seedy looking neck tattoo that put Sam in mind of MC ink. (Not that she’d ever met anyone in a motorcycle club, but… well, it looked like it would fit the part.) His crooked grin would’ve been charming if it hadn’t been so ill-timed. Like really: not the best moment for introductions. 

He lifted a hand, beckoning her closer, almost teasingly. 

Sam shot him a flat look. _Seriously?_ NOT the fuckin’ time. But when he opened his mouth to say something else, she shook her head quickly. Quiet would be easier closer, she could at least get that. So she stepped lightly over the shingles until she was within whispering range. “I know I’m new to this, but now isn’t the time for hazing,” she breathed. “I don’t want to _die_ , so if you’d keep your voice down, I’d appreciate it.” Her tone was clipped, trying not to let out the shitload of sarcasm she wanted to unleash. Politeness. Try to be polite. She was relying on this guy to save her if she ever got hooked. 

“Worried about the killer?” His voice was low, too, but not nearly as cautious, and Sam rolled her eyes frustratedly, shaking her head. The guy shrugged a shoulder, gesturing with a bandage-wrapped hand. “It’s fine. Other side of the map. Probably can’t even hear us up here anyway.” Well _that_ was one way to look at it. 

“What do you want? Why are you up here?” She didn’t mean to be snippy, but… well, it was _her_ strategy. 

He jerked a thumb back to where he’d climbed up. “Wanted to give it a go.”

Thunk, chime. Another generator. Sam briefly turned her head in the direction of the black spot, and saw Neck Tattoo do the same. Three down. And no new screams, so that was good. 

“Well you did it, great,” she deadpanned, turning back to him. “Shouldn’t you be helping with gens?”

“Shouldn’t _you?_ ” He shot back, crossing his arms over his chest and looking her up and down. “You must’ve figured it out by now, right?”

“I did!” Sam argued. “I… did part of one, at least,” her voice shifted to more of a grumble as her gaze skirted off of him, scanning the edges of the ground she could see before snapping back to him. “But you’ve been here longer. You guys are better at this, I’m still— I _hide._ I— I shouldn’t even be _talking_ to you, I should be _hiding._ ”

“Can I see the tattoo?”

What? Sam’s brows knitted together, taken aback. “What are you talking about?” 

He reached for her arm, and Sam snatched it away. “Just a peek? I saw a few of them, wanted to get a closer look.” 

She’d been wearing the denim jacket all day. He must’ve meant when she’d been by the Campfire after last night's trials. Maybe he’d spotted her in the main building. She _did_ have several tattoos scattered on her arms. And legs, actually, though those had been hidden under her jeans since she got here. She had quite a few simple black-and-grey pieces on various parts of her body. A minor addiction, really. It was a more productive form of self-harm than cutting. It hurt, just enough, and it came out beautiful. 

“Tiny peek? Just a little? Itty bitty flash of ink?” he wheedled, smirking. 

“You’re insufferable.” She didn’t mean to say it. It was rude as hell, and she was trying not to make any enemies. But Christ, the guy was asking for it. 

“Yeah, but I’m cute.” 

Sam scowled. He wasn’t bad-looking, sure. But she wasn't about to admit that. “You’re a fucking madman, chatting when we’re trying not to get killed.” 

He pulled a face, shrugging again as he rolled his eyes. “We’re fine.” 

“We’re being hunted by serial killers. In what world is that _fine?”_ Her tone was wry rather than full-on angry. 

“This world.” His quick retort was accompanied by a raised brow and that irritating smirk. “Thought someone woulda explained that by now.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” she shot back. 

His smirk widened. “You might, though.” 

Sam gave him a scathing look. 

“What? You don’t find it a little… _exhilarating?”_ He waggled his eyebrows playfully. Flirtatiously?

Jesus. “Not the time, dude. Really not the time.”

“Let me see.”

This again? He reached for her arm again, faster than before, and his hold was a vise grip as soon as he had her. “Shit— fuck, man, that hurts.”

He ignored her, unbuttoning the cuff at her wrist to push the sleeve up roughly, intent on her skin. 

_Touching._ Sam wasn’t used to touching. Touching was A Lot, and his hands were warm, and firm, and his finger tracing over the ink on her forearm made her skin prickle with awareness. Not _necessarily_ bad, but definitely overwhelming. Touch tended to overwhelm her. A little went a long way, especially in close proximity like this. She didn't like it.

“Nice.” His thumb rubbed at the anatomical heart she had tattooed midway up the inside of her arm. Then his touch hesitated, index finger tracing the brand new scar up her wrist. “…Not so nice,” he added, casually. 

Sam’s head felt tight and hot, blushing and terrified all at once. A stupid thing to be scared of, especially in a place like this, but it felt like her secret was no longer hers. Her gaze snapped to his face warily, but his expression was still that teasing smile. 

He moved on without another word about it, rotating her arm to spot the next patch of ink. “Cute.” 

It was a rose, stem fully thorned, that was nearly as long as her whole forearm. Not something she’d normally consider _cute_. She’d be lying if she said there weren’t some gothic/romantic roots to that one. Part of her never-quite-ended emo phase. But apparently, that wasn’t what he was looking for either. 

He sucked in a quick breath as he turned his grip, adjusting her arm and running his thumb down the piece inked on the outer edge of her forearm. “There it is.” His eyes seemed to have lit up, and Sam couldn’t quite figure why. 

She raised an eyebrow. The knife tattoo? Why the knife tattoo?

The guy let out a low whistle. “It’s real close, too.”

There was a brief explosion and Sam turned toward the generator in progress. “Close?” Her question was distracted.

“Yeah.” 

Thunk, chime. Fourth. Her focus lingered on the spot in her vision. Still no more screams. 

“Almost identical, don’t you think?” 

Her stomach sank in the split second it took to turn back to him. Like something in her knew. Like something had _finally_ tripped the switch that the lack of a heartbeat had foiled. 

He was holding a knife. 

“You’re—”

“Yep.” He grinned. 

Sam tried to jerk out of his hold, but his fingers didn’t budge. She at least forced him to take a few steps along the roof, and suddenly the heartbeat was back, loud and _fast_. Right at the epicenter. 

Her face wiped blank, utterly shocked, but soon twisted into a grimace of pain, letting out a strangled yelp as the blade bit through fabric to sink into her stomach. Her knees gave out, falling back on the shingles, and the guy straddled her hips, still grinning, the grip on her wrist making her bones creak. 

“You know, I’m supposed to just let you run for a bit. All kinds of benefits to letting you limp around like a broken little puppy.” 

Her eyes rolled, this time from pain. Her jaw was tight, a short whimper escaping between her teeth. She should focus. Try to recover. But she was still in shock. Too late, she remembered her other arm, and her free hand came up to punch at his side, to scratch at his face, to do _anything_ , but another pained cry split the air as the knife slashed at her arm before stabbing straight through her palm and into the roof, pinning it there. 

Sam screamed. It wasn’t like she had a choice: her hand burned, her shoulder ached from the force, and— God— her whole body was wracked with the pain of the knife to her gut. In any other reality she should’ve passed out from that. Her vision was swimming, but she was still awake. They were stronger here. Heartier. It wasn’t a blessing. Just let them endure more suffering. 

“And maybe I will. Leave you to go run for your new friends.” 

Sam shook her head weakly, closing her eyes and trying to recover. Centering. _Trying._ It was doing _something._ She just couldn’t name what. 

The red light was back. When had the light come back? The _red stain_ as they’d called it. Sign of a killer. Like the knife piercing her belly hadn’t been enough of a signal. She’d been so stupid. So _fucking_ stupid, to think he was a survivor. 

He leaned back, sitting on his heels, still holding down the unstabbed arm, and let go of the knife’s handle to reach behind him, pulling out something he’d had tucked into the back of his waistband. 

It might have been the blood loss, it might have been fear, but Sam was shaking as he pulled the mask down over his face. _Great, another masked kill_ — she couldn’t even finish the bitter thought, head going staticky from the pain. 

“Much better,” he breathed. Breath was louder with the mask on. More ominous. “Now. To kill your friends.”

The knife was jerked out of her palm and Sam bit out a broken, “ _Fuck-_ ” as the guy got off of her and ran to the edge of the roof. Fast. He was so fast, just dropping off the side like he’d survive fine. He probably would. She probably wouldn’t. But she needed to at least get down from here. She needed to find an ally, someone to heal her. 

Sam rolled onto her stomach, wincing and hissing and pressing bleeding palm to bleeding stomach, trying to focus on staying conscious as she crawled to the roof’s edge, the loud heartbeat fading away. She hesitated. 

_Fuck it._ If she broke her neck, at least the trial would be over. The pain would stop, even if only momentarily. But there was no way she’d be saved up here. The killer seemed to have made that clear: she was still the only survivor climbing. So she had to get down to her teammates. 

The scream sounded more distant than it probably was. Then another. Had he gotten more than one? _Fast._ Eager and frenzied, maybe even high on his complete success at making a fool out of her. 

With one brief glance down, Sam closed her eyes. _Kill me now, coward. Be done with it._ She rolled off the edge of the roof. 

She hardly felt the silent impact of her landing.

But that couldn’t be right. Sam frowned as she opened her eyes. 

**_Feather Fall._ **

That intuitive thought that wasn’t hers, putting a name to whatever had just happened. Okay, so… that didn’t hurt? She’d fallen at least 25 feet. But she’d come down silently and unharmed (well, apart from the still-bleeding wound in her abdomen). 

Movement was still difficult. She needed to do the thing Claudette had mentioned, the whole _centering and stabilizing_ thing. Sam couldn’t meditate (she’d tried; therapists loved meditation, it had been recommended over and over again), but she could at least crawl to a spot she was less likely to be seen (there was a rock with some high grass around it just a few feet away, that should work for now) and focus on recovering. 

She wasn’t sure if it was the thick fabric of her jacket or something about this place that kept her wound from getting that much worse as she crawled. It felt off, somehow. Like it should be pulling and jarring and becoming more serious just with the amount of time she wasn’t getting emergency care. It was bleeding, for sure, she felt the hot stain spreading, seeping through her clothes. But letting herself focus, channeling whatever weird energy seeped out of the ground here, she could _feel_ herself stabilizing. 

Fucking weird. It was all fucking weird. 

She’d need to cover it somehow, bandage it, but it was better than nothing. And there were spots in her sight again, figures moving. It seemed everywhere she looked there was another silhouette. One was close. 

“Hold on, Sam, I gotcha,” Kate breathed, rolling her over and taking one brief survey before opening Sam’s jacket, pushing the hem of her shirt up and pressing something onto her wound. “Better?”

What the hell was that? “How did—” Sam cut herself off as Kate put a finger to her lips, and she briefly wanted to argue that _Kate_ had asked her a _question_ , but now wasn’t the time for that. She sat up, pulling up her shirt again, but there was nothing there. The wound was blocked off by something, slowing the bleeding, but no bandage was visible. It still hurt like a motherfucker, and would be a bitch to move with, but she wasn’t dying anymore. Why wasn’t she dying anymore?

Kate leaned close, barely whispering in Sam’s ear as she wrapped another strip of something around her middle - something that _looked_ like a bandage, but Sam was less and less sure of that - and the proximity once more reminded Sam of _cute girl_ before her brain slammed down the _focus on not dying_ button. “Once you’re back up, go for the running gen next to the killer’s shack; Steve got hooked. I’ll get David down and then you and me can work on the genny by the ski lift while the guys distract the killer.”

Those words should theoretically make sense. Sam blinked, trying to process. Whatever Kate was doing, it was working. She was feeling stronger and stronger, which— _how?_ No, time was ticking, couldn’t wonder about that now. Chock it all up to whatever fucked up dark magic was running this place. Hell could make anything happen, even hope. 

Like a click at the back of her head, the pain was diminished. Almost gone. And so was Kate, sprinting toward a hanging silhouette before Sam could even thank her. Another glance at her midriff gave her that vertigo of impossibility: no wound, no bandages. Her hand - and Kate hadn’t even _touched_ her hand - was healed, too. For a second she paused, on the precipice of falling into thought, but again, there was that urge to keep going. 

The silhouette was still in her sight, the one Kate had gestured to, so she took off running. No heartbeat, no red light— then again, it hadn’t been there on the roof— but too late for that now, her teammate was impaled. Time to do something for someone else for a change. 

She reached him quick, and— _Jesus fuck_ , now she saw what the ghost had meant by Daddy Long Legs. 

“A little— help—” Steve was holding tight to a massive spike-like claw (one of many that had sprouted up on the hook) that had its pointed tip pressed below his chin, trying to push the frozen thing away as best he could. It wasn’t budging, but his movement alone looked enough to accidentally puncture something. 

Sam hesitated. “Won’t I-” _make it worse?_

“ **NO.** ” 

Okay then. She wrapped her arms around his waist and as soon as she did the claws started to disintegrate, melting away the way steel wool burned, and she didn’t even knock into them as she lifted him down. Steve was barely on the ground when the heartbeat started again, and he started limping away as fast as he could (again, no thank you, no time for gratitude). 

“Can’t I help—”

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her in a loud whisper, angling around some rocks. Light. There was light. “Get the last gen—” His words were cut off by a sharp grunt of pain as he fell to the ground. 

The killer was wiping his blade on the sleeve of his jacket. Stooping to lift Steve up, hauling the body over his shoulder easily, he murmured a casual, “Time to start running.”

Sam didn’t need to be told twice. She took off like a dart, heading to the last place she’d seen a silhouette, where she knew Kate had gone. Kate had said they needed to do generators, that the guys would draw the killer’s attention; Sam just needed to get close enough for someone else to distract. 

The red stain cast her own shadow on the ground ahead of her as she ran. 

How had he caught up so quickly? Fuck, she shouldn’t have gone around those rocks, they'd taken her the opposite direction, she should’ve just taken the straightaway. Or maybe she should be trying the thing Min had told her, the pallets and the vaulting, but— Fuck, the heartbeat was so loud. 

“ _Faster,_ puppy.”

Absolute bastard. She wanted to be angry, but that _heartbeat_ , it only pushed the fear higher. 

He was faster than her. She’d been told that, that all the killers were faster, that that was why strategy was so important. On the straightaway he’d catch her easily. Sam veered off course toward wooden walls that almost perfectly resembled the practice course back at camp. She vaulted through a window, trying to remember what she’d been taught. Looping. Run them around in circles. Use pallets. They can’t vault as fast as survivors and—

She was making a tight turn around the corner of an L-shaped wall when she realized the heartbeat was fading. 

_Doesn’t mean anything, it faded before._

But when she glanced back for movement, he was gone. He’d left her. Given up the chase? It didn’t feel right. 

_“You know, I’m supposed to just let you run for a bit. All kinds of benefits to letting you limp around like a broken little puppy.”_

What had he meant by that? He hadn’t even hit her. Just left. Got her completely terrified, then disappeared. He was toying with her. Sam scowled. And calling her _puppy._ What a fucking dick. 

She wasn’t injured, though. Things felt better when she wasn’t injured. There was a level of confidence she hadn’t had before. 

Right, her assignment. The generator by the ski lift. Sam walked slowly, trying to keep to cover as best she could, keeping an eye out for the red light as well as the landmark she needed to find. There. And she could hear the metallic sounds of work, too. Once she spotted Kate, she faltered. Fuck. Steve had been hooked again. 

As soon as she thought it, there was a wave of force pushing through the air, that quiet shockwave, and it made her trip over her feet as she realized: that was her fault. She was supposed to have saved Steve, and instead she’d run. He’d been sacrificed. Because of her. 

There was a soft ache, a tear of guilt ripping at something in her chest. She was well-versed in guilt. Guilt and spite, a toxic combination of bad influences on her thoughts and actions. 

_Do what you can. You’ll apologize at the Campfire._

Clenching her jaw, Sam glanced around again before heading for the generator. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as her fingers started working at the wires. “I fucked up.”

Kate wasn’t quite as smiley as before. Losing a teammate took a toll. “It happens. Focus on—” Sam’s fingers slipped and a loud spark and pop exploded from the generator, making her shield her eyes.

There was a scream in the distance. David. If he’d gone down, that left no more distractions. Someone should go unhook him. And now the killer knew where they were. They were down to three survivors, and he knew where they were, and _only one generator left_ , but she was fucking up left and right and—

“Run him,” Kate whispered, ducking back behind the shack at the base of the ski lift as the heartbeat got louder. 

Fuck it, _okay_ , time to be a distraction, so much for _staying alive_ , Christ— Sam sprinted away from the source of the heartbeat, but it didn’t get any quieter. So he was on her tail. Again. 

Loops. Pallets. Keep him occupied. Let Kate rescue David. Let them finish the generator. 

Vault a window, run a corner, keep an eye on the red stain. 

Vaulting was easy, she could do that. It might have even made her feel badass and competent, if she weren’t absolutely terrified. Once. Twice. The heartbeat was fading as she made her third vault. Sam risked slowing her pace, eyes darting around for the red stain, but it was gone. 

The killer wasn’t. 

She took off again, even more panicked now that her heartbeat wasn’t there to warn her. Why wasn’t it working? She needed to know, needed to— _pallet._

Sam got her hands on the corner of it and paused - just a second, a _fraction_ of a second, swallowing a nervous lump in her throat as she picked the perfect moment to—

“ _Fuck!_ Not nice, puppy.” 

The heartbeat was back. The stain was back. Something about getting hit with the pallet had stunned him, thrown him off. 

Shit, she had to keep running. Quickly, she ran off toward a rock formation, glancing back briefly to find— fuck, they could vault those? Someone had said only survivors could slide over those, that putting them down was like a temporary wall, that it would force them to waste time breaking it. But not for this guy. He was still on her, and gaining. 

An idea started to play at the back of her mind as she ran between rocks, cursing that there wasn’t another pallet. She’d landed off that roof without taking any damage. Was that an always thing? Should she be jumping? At the very least, a glimpse from the high ground would give her info on her surroundings, could point her toward another pallet. Fuck it. She couldn’t see anything down here. 

Sam made a tight turn, heading up the incline of rock and looking around as she did so. _Bingo._ She leapt off the edge, holding her breath—

Fuck. Landed weird. It didn’t hurt, it didn’t make noise, but it took her a second to right herself. Took her too long. That heartbeat was hammering, right on top of her. 

Sam shot a nervous glance over her shoulder once she got running again, but he was paused on the top of the rocks. What, he’d stopped? He’d let her go _again?_

She expected him to start up the chase again, but he just flipped the knife in his hand and took off sprinting back toward the unfinished generator. Her running slowed, brows furrowing. He was faster. Faster than he’d been chasing her. Either he’d just gotten some kind of adrenaline boost or… he’d been _holding back._ Briefly it occurred to her that it might be both. Regardless: she’d failed. She was supposed to be distracting him. 

_Stupid. This is fucking stupid, don’t be an idiot Sam, save your own skin._

But no. She was running back. Like a fucking moron. Running straight into danger, even after having his knife hilt-deep in her belly. 

There was a loud clanking, sputtering sound, smoke issuing out from below the ski lift. It didn’t sound like when a survivor fucked up, it must’ve been… Of course: re-breaking it. Trying to undo their progress. 

Her heartbeat was faint, and she tried to catch sight of the killer again. Then it was gone. But there wasn’t a silhouette anywhere, either. So David was off the hook. 

Sam hesitated for a second, then immediately crouched by the generator to start working. If he was off the hook, she’d done her job. Now she had to help with this. It was just past halfway completed, shouldn’t take much longer to finish. 

It wasn’t a scream, but Sam heard a sharp yelp of pain - definitely Kate - not too far off. She risked glancing around cover, and saw the blonde limping fast in her direction and the red stain glowing as the killer ran the other way. Kate didn’t look happy. Far from it. 

“Is David-”

“Let’s just finish this. He’s dead on hook.” 

Dead on… But not dead yet? 

“Apparently Legion likes to play with his food,” Kate grumbled, fingers jerky as she rushed through her work. It was another set of words that only made half sense. Sam would figure it out eventually, their terms. And now she had a name for the killer. Legion. Which was a stupid fucking name, in her opinion.

There was a scream from afar, and not long after a boom. Another sacrifice. Kate looked pale, but determined, and a second later there was that final thunk, chime. 

**_Find the exit._ **

“Where’s the—” But Kate was already limping away as fast as she could. All Sam could do was follow, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. They were the only two left. And they were heading one of two places. It would be so obvious. 

At that thought, she hung back. Maybe it would be better… She crouched, moving cover-to-cover in Kate’s wake. If she was running, she’d be leaving tracks. Sam was uninjured. She could hide, in case Kate got taken down. She could hide, like she always preferred. Disappear into tall grass, behind rocks or trees. 

Her plan felt justified when she heard the heartbeat. Sam fell still, trying to blend into the rocks, pressing back against them and feeling every plane against her side and back. 

The killer - Legion, she had to remember that, needed to start a file on the weird shit these guys could do - ran past the debris ahead of her. Going for Kate. Sam could hear as the chase started, Kate not making any attempt to hide the sound of her running, the first pallet slammed down in mere seconds.

This was going to be another incredibly stupid decision. 

She started to creep toward the exit gate. 

Kate had run off, and she was still here, and still healthy. Fuck it. She sprinted for it, grabbing onto the handle and pulling down. 

Right. _Fuck_ , oh right, this took _for fucking ever._

As soon as she caught the faintest heartbeat, Sam walked away, forcing herself not to run, to go find cover and freeze. 

The heartbeat came. And it went. Sam spotted movement in the grass, heard muffled whimpers. Kate? Back again?

After a moment’s pause, Kate leapt to her feet and ran for the switch, hauling it down again. It was almost there. Two out of three lights. And then there was the heartbeat. They were _so close._ Kate wasn’t moving. There was a loud siren noise, a buzz of alarm signaling that it was _almost_ there, but it was too late. _Masked killer strikes again._ Kate went down as his blade pulled out of her back and wiped the blood off on his sleeve. He didn’t rush to pick her up, just looked around as Kate bit back a sob. 

Not quite. Almost there. They’d been so close. If she could just hold it down for _one more second_ the gates would open. She just needed him to get out of the way. But he was just standing, waiting. Like he knew she was there, just out of sight. The heartbeat faded. The red stain disappeared.

“Sam, _don’t do it,_ ” Kate shouted, voice breaking as the killer pressed his foot against the side of her face, pushing her head into the snowy mud.

“Come on, puppy. I’m waiting on you, here. I’ll _let you_ pull the switch. A gimme.”

Why didn’t she believe him? Probably had something to do with the knife he was spinning around in his hand. 

She didn’t move. Maybe he’d think she wasn’t here. He’d think she was searching for the hatch, or going for the other exit. She could wait. 

Kate was letting out soft whimpers, and Sam tried not to feel guilty. Everything had gone wrong this trial. Steve and David, sacrificed. Kate, bleeding out at the exit gates. This fucker. This fucker had spent so long, making her think he was just another survivor. _Playing with his food._ That felt like an apt name for it, maybe Kate had hit the nail on the head. 

He’d only actually hurt her once, though. The other times, he’d just chased and left. What if… What if it was a novelty? What if he really did mean to let her escape? 

But Kate had warned her off. _Wait_.

“Whatcha waiting on, Sammy?” Hearing him say her name - hearing him call her something that she hadn’t heard since she was a _kid_ \- sent chills down her spine. She wished Kate had never let that slip. “I don’t bite.” She could hear the grin in his voice, even as he rapped a hand against his mask. “Not while this is on, anyway.”

Wait. Silent. Force him to walk away. There was no collapse yet. Finally, the guy sighed. “Fine. I’ll do it myself.”

The heartbeat was back as he hoisted Kate up onto one shoulder, flicking the gate switch like it was nothing. The doors slid open. The timer started. Cracks of light started to creep over the ground.

“Come on, puppy. _Run._ ”

Kate was struggling, trying to free herself from his grasp, but Sam’s eyes were fixed on the exit. If she curved around on his offhand side… She could make it. She could escape. Her heartbeat was so loud, it was blocking out common sense as the killer took a few lazy steps out of the way. He was making it easy for her. 

_Fuck it._ He was insane. Maybe he really did mean to let her go. And Kate was struggling enough to get in the way. 

Fine. 

She sprinted for the gate.

Two steps past the doors, she went down. He’d barely _grazed_ her across the side of her thigh, how did that hurt so badly?! It was _one_ fucking cut! Looking at it, she saw little tendrils of light splitting off, cracking further into her skin, widening the wound. Something that should’ve been a simple injury, suddenly lethal. 

No time to look. Crawl. 

“Oh no you don’t.”

He picked her up easily, walking her back out the gates, and Sam growled and punched at his back, kicking as hard as she could. It was getting harder, the pain in her leg freezing it up, throbbing like the little cracks of light were boring straight into her bones. She saw Kate on the ground, crawling for the exit, and part of her thought _maybe one of us will actually get out._

Then she was unceremoniously dropped on the ground. 

“Haven't had to juggle bodies in a while, this is fun,” the guy flipped his knife in his hand again, like he had all the time in the world. He went back to Kate, and she groaned as he hauled her up again. On his way back, he kicked at Sam’s injured leg, looking down at her and holding out his knife like a chastising finger. “Puppy: stay. I have a surprise for you.”

Yeah: fuck that. 

Sam was crawling for the exit before he could even take a step away, and she heard him laugh under the mask. “Fuckin’ newbies, got no respect.”

He didn’t exactly _deserve_ respect, as far as she was concerned. 

Crawling was slow progress, but she was halfway there when she heard Kate’s scream and felt the pinprick telling her to look, to see her ally strung up on a hook. _No thank you, leaving now._

The heartbeat seemed to zoom back. Like he’d sprinted back to her, though there was a pause before he actually tugged at her ankle, pulling her backward. Sam shrieked her frustration, clawing at the ground and wincing as she skinned her palms against the stone. Why was he always showing up when she was _so close_?

She was back over his shoulder in moments, and she felt him shaking with laughter. “Christ, you’re feral.”

“ _Fuck_ you—” Sam jabbed her elbows into his back. “You piece of shit fucking asshole, you fucking _liar_ , I swear to _fuck_ —”

The knife poked at the back of her thigh, warningly. “Not a bad thing, puppy. …Dirty mouth on you, huh?”

Before she could retort, she was dropped onto the ground again, and Sam sucked in a breath as she landed on her injured leg, rolling onto her back to glare up at him. 

“Now look, you’ve wasted all this time, and now everything’s Collapsing, and I don’t even have time for my whole welcome speech.”

“Just fucking hook me, dickwad.”

“Nuh uh uh, not today.” 

What the hell did that mean? He was spinning his knife in his hand again, and it didn’t exactly make her feel any better about not getting hooked. Like maybe there was something else in store. She watched his weapon, cautiously. 

“You know, occasionally we just… take one of you little pups to the hatch. Out of pity. If we’re feeling generous.”

Sam tried to keep her face unreadable. “…Are you feeling generous?” She managed not to spit the question, trying to sound at least somewhat more respectful. 

The killer - _Legion_ , dammit, she needed to use names - took a knee beside her. “You know what you newbies need to learn, and learn fast, Sammy?”

Again, her name. She didn’t like it, not one bit. When he didn’t offer an answer to his rhetorical question, she gritted her teeth. “What?”

He leaned in, and she could hear the smirk in his voice, a teasing rumble. “ _No one escapes death._ ”

She tried to struggle. She really did, she got her hands in the way, tried to crawl, but he just dragged her back with his knife through her heel, and then was on top of her, blade hilt-deep in her chest. Screaming was useless, she knew that, but she did it anyway, rage and agony all rolled up into one, tearing her throat raw before she didn’t have air to breathe anymore, or maybe she was choking, or maybe—

There was no sound for the final wrenching blow, ripping down her torso, splitting her open. All she got was searing pain, a lasting memory of unadulterated _suffering_ as she faded into darkness. 

“…Heh. Nice shirt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how much research I had to do to figure out perks for this trial 😅 It still might not be accurate, cause without owning the game I have no way to test (and sometimes you just kinda shrug off the mechanics), but I tried to parse all the details for what would get the right effects. I decided he was running Play With Your Food, Beast of Prey, Insidious, and NOED. (Also, obviously, had a one-use mori.)
> 
> I need reactions! Please. I crave an emoji or two for my weak little heart. ❤ Let them sustain me as I keep writing. 😁


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so, dying wasn't fun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna lump the next two chapters together, since this is kinda short, but I may hold off on the next one right away. (Or I may end up posting it later today, I am very inconsistent and impulsive with these things.) Welcome to Sam is stranger and less stable than we might hope.

Fuck. It still hurt. Sam’s teeth dug into her cheek as she moved with the others, none of them particularly talkative or energetic. She still felt it. It was like there were thorns growing in her chest, cracking down her sternum somewhere under the surface muscle. She didn’t have any broken skin left from the wounds she’d sustained, just like it had been with the other trials. But more than those times, this time it _hurt._ A lot. 

And beyond that, it was seriously fucking with her head. 

She’d _died._

And here she was, trooping with the rest of her team back toward the Campfire, all of them pale and silent. Haunted. 

The doubly weird part was that it wasn’t her first time. 

Correction: it definitely _was_ her first time getting murdered. That was new. But being alive after she’d thought she was dead? Not so much. 

She’d had her three attempts. Rope, pills, razor. Each time she’d faded to black, just like she had in the trial. Each time she’d woken up. 

Sam’s head was a buzzing mess, a tangle of frayed wires sparking half-finished thoughts, too garbled to work clearly. She’d always been a fan of denial, and that made facing facts hard from the get go, let alone facing facts about a universe that she still wasn’t sure was real. But in all of that, some curiosity remained, a whisper that looped around her ear without ever taking center stage in her thoughts. 

What was real, what was fake. How much of this was part of the Entity. How much was just _her._ Or was there some kind of overlap? Had this happened every time she’d died? Or, _tried_ to die? Had some part of her come to a place like this? It was a murky solipsistic viewpoint, that this was all in her head.

Her life was full of doubt and frustration and feeling like she never understood. Mysteries that went so far beyond rational thought, they couldn’t even be talked about. It was enough to drive a woman mad— and it had, basically, even if she could cover it. Her constant cycle of sensitivity and apathy. Feeling it all and understanding none of it, until she forced herself to just stop feeling and give up trying to make sense. 

God, it was all too much. 

Fingers brushed her hand and Sam jerked away, pulled from her tangled thoughts. Other people. Other people pushed this idea that maybe, _possibly_ it was real. 

“Are you okay?” 

Jesus. Kate was… Kate was something else. She looked disconnected, like her mind was elsewhere, but she was still trying. It was kind of admirable. Not the variety of relentless optimism that grated at Sam’s nerves - the _live laugh love_ bullshit she might have expected from a girl who’d been dubbed _the hopeful songbird_ \- but an undercurrent of soft determination. Getting back up. When Sam was more inclined to lie down. 

Sam wanted to say something, to tell her she was, or she would be, but… Deadmouth. Stuck in her head. Couldn’t make words happen. 

“You didn’t make it out, did you?” Kate’s voice was quiet and gentle, and Sam felt a twinge of guilt at that. Weird, how much strength it must take to stay gentle after what must have been tens or hundreds or even thousands of these trials for her. 

Sam shook her head stiffly. 

The little furrow between Kate’s brows came with a soft wave of pity that made Sam’s neck heat. She hated being pitied. Mostly because she knew she was pitiful enough to deserve it. “First sacrifice?”

Sam quickly took her eyes off of Kate’s face, focusing on the light of the Campfire as they approached it in the mist. After a second of hesitation, she shook her head again. 

There was a pause. “Oh.” 

Keeping her gaze fixed on the approaching light, Sam tried to tune out Kate’s faltering steps, but she couldn’t ignore the fingers closing around her wrist. “Don’t—” She yanked out of the girl’s loose grasp, but her voice was gone again. One firm order, one heavy boundary set, that’s about all she could do. 

Kate looked hurt. Sam avoided her eyes, and walked the last few steps into the Campfire’s glow. Out of the fog. She didn’t bother sitting to talk, didn’t want to will her jaw open again. She wanted to sleep. 

Trudging through the circle of logs, heading toward her lean-to, she overheard one of the survivors ask, “That bad, huh?”

“4K. Sam got mori’d.” 

For some reason that pissed her off. Not that she’d been killed, she knew it was bound to happen eventually - _no one escapes death_ , as the killer had so _graciously_ informed her - but hearing it be reported like that. Breaking down this traumatic experience to just a few words, a couple bits of jargon. 

The anger helped with the pain in her chest. It fit more; the feelings were sympathetic. It was where she was used to feeling her anger, anyway, clawing out of her chest. It made it feel like _hers_ again. Reclaiming that sensation. 

_Can’t hurt me if I’m already hurting myself._

Oh spite, the beautiful fucked up thing. 

Oh. 

That… that was an idea. 

That was an incredibly fucked up idea. 

They would hate her. They would hate her so much. 

And it was hard to believe her recklessness would hold, if she were to stare down a real killer. But the idea was there. It had planted itself in the back of her head, and musing on it offered some twisted cynical satisfaction. 

Sam didn’t have an anger problem. She wasn’t known for taking her anger out on others, anyway. But it was nice to think about revenge, sometimes. And if it had to be a passive aggressive self-sabotaging kind of full-on _spite_ , well, so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3c


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the fourth trial. (some things are worse than death)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As should be expected, I am impulsive and already did my writing for the day, so here's another chapter. Sam didn't get any more stable. Moris fuck you up, especially if you, like Sam, are a highly spiteful individual.

Just like the previous day, she got pulled into another trial not long after the first. This time, she was angry. And she intended to let that anger power her for as long as she could manage. 

First step: higher ground. It was one of the few advantages she had in these trials, and she needed to take advantage of the fact that the killers didn’t fully get it yet. At least, that was what she’d gathered from Legion’s offhanded comments. And if she could drop down silently, and they made noise climbing up, she could jump without alerting them to where she jumped _from._

Then again, that would imply that she meant to jump. 

She wasn’t sure she would. 

In the hour or so she had between the last trial and this, she’d stewed on revenge. To get the killer’s weapon and turn it on them. To taunt them, to laugh in their fucking faces when they tried to kill her. When they inevitably _did_ kill her. If she couldn’t fight, she’d just be as unhinged as possible. Run herself onto their blade if she had to. Don’t give them the power to scare her. Don’t give them the satisfaction of her fear.

Of course, all of this was easier said than done. 

But for now she had that confidence. She had her half-baked plan, and she could convince herself that the pain in her chest was entirely her own venom. 

The choice for her higher ground seemed obvious: there was a massive glowing sign pointing right to it. Gas Heaven. She just had to get there and climb on up, and let the echo of the knife power her through it. Even if just being here gave her the requisite creeps. Focus on feeling superior and spiteful. She could do that. 

She kept low as she went, kept quiet, but didn’t bother full-on crouching. She had a goal. She had to get there. Before her nerve ran out. There was no heartbeat yet. No red light. 

There _was_ however, a sparking explosion from the opposite direction than the gas station. Pretty early for people to already be messing up, but at least it would offer a distraction. And once she’d gotten around the piles of flattened cars, she let out a shadow of a laugh - just a quiet huff of breath - upon seeing the station. It was like it had been _made_ to climb. Or, at the very least, had fallen into just the right amount of disrepair. What had once been an overhang to cover the gas pumps had started to cave, dipping low right by a tall pump. Assuming she didn’t accidentally get doused in gasoline, it looked like a straightforward path to the tiered roof. 

_Catching on fire would be a new and different way to go._

Okay, maybe that thought was a bit much. But she was running on every hint of presumptuous black humor she could muster. The back of her mind was already letting the doubts get too loud, she had to shut them up somehow. Double down. 

She sprinted to the overhang and jumped to get her upper grip on the pump just as another explosion sounded. People just fucking up their repairs left and right this trial. But she wasn’t caring about that right now. 

Fuck, they really _were_ going to hate her for this. For not doing a single thing to help them escape, just getting her own satisfaction. Whoever was here… well, she would be sorry, if she were letting herself feel those things. But adrenaline was what mattered right now, staying focused and getting to high ground. 

As always, the climbing was loud. There was a noise from something farther away, but it was quickly overshadowed as she knocked the handle free with her foot, clanking too-loudly against the pump and the ground. But she was up. And she immediately jogged up the incline and pulled herself onto the next level of roof, over the interior of the station. It gave her a vantage point that felt invaluable. And there was _another_ level up, too, on one end. Would make it a far drop, though. Even if she _wouldn’t_ get hurt when she landed, Sam knew she wasn’t great at regaining her speed. 

But fuck that. Too much thought on strategy and she’d back down. For now she was high on death. Let them fucking try, she’d laugh in their goddamn faces. Whoever _they_ were. 

Sam still had no idea who was hunting. She’d heard names thrown around during the day, but hadn’t committed many to memory aside from those she’d actually faced, the ones she could put a picture to. 

Surveying her surroundings, Sam was instantly glad she’d climbed. She could see so much. From high up, she could see the various arrangements of walls of crushed metal, the stacks of cars, hooks, generators… and movement. To one side, piston movement, gradually building up speed. She couldn’t see exactly how many people or who they were working on it, they were crouched and hidden alongside the generator, but they were getting it done. And just farther off: red. 

Details were hard to spot from here, but they were tall. Did they have horns? Something giving an odd shape to their head. 

Well. 

_Here goes everything._

Sam shifted nervously, then planted her feet, bouncing slightly and turning that pain in her chest to force. “Hey! _Fucker._ Come get me.” At least she sounded confident, loud and brash, her words traveling over the piles of debris to (hopefully) smack the asshole killer in the face. 

Sure enough, their attention turned, running for the station. 

Right. That part. 

Thunk, chime. **_One._ **

“Come get it, bitch!” She should probably stop with the taunting. An eerie echo of a lullaby rang in the night as the light grew closer, the heartbeat starting up. The lullaby alone was enough to make an involuntary shiver attempt to move Sam’s firmly-planted feet. …This was maybe not her best idea. 

That concept was enforced as the figure slowed.

_Fuck._

Sam dropped to her knees as a hatchet just missed her to embed itself in the roof. 

_Fuck fuck fuck_ — they could throw things?! She’d probably been told this. She was sure she had, but of course that hadn’t occurred to her while her head was all _‘time to fuck with killers.’_

Another hatchet embedded a few feet from the first. A rush ran through her at her own luck, as she kept low and moved to the other edge of the roof, out of sight. There was a noise from the pumps up front and she decided— well, time to test it.

She dropped off the side of the building without a sound, taking a moment to right herself before creeping through the side door of the station, spotting feet as they hauled up onto the overhang out front. Something inside her was giddy. She could hear that shift in the heartbeat as she silently moved further from it, a fluttering sensation blooming in her stomach before she took off to dart around a stack of cars not far from the station. She couldn’t prevent a small manic smile from catching on her lips as the heartbeat faded completely as she maneuvered herself, keeping low behind the tallest stacks she’d seen from the roof. 

It was like a drug. A high. It was… 

_“You don’t find it a little… exhilarating?”_

Fuck. That fucking bastard. …He was right. In a way. Escaping was a rush, when she felt like a genius for managing to do it. She felt _smart_ and _capable_ for once. She felt _powerful_ in a situation manufactured to make them power _less_. 

_I could get used to this— if it didn’t also mean the constant threat of death._

Her smile hooked into a grim line. That was the downside, wasn’t it? Couldn’t let herself forget that minor detail. 

But _god_ it felt good for that moment. 

The moment, however, did not last. 

It cut short about the same split second a hatchet lodged itself between her shoulder blades. 

Sam winced, blindly angling herself back toward higher cover, but—

Wait, what?

She’d just been behind a stack of cars, right? She’d had an L-shaped wall somewhere off to her right, and had been between two tall stacks of cars. How had she ended up by heavy machinery? And where the fuck had the hatchet gone?

Something tickled at the back of her mind, itching at her the way those thoughts did. The ones that weren’t hers. But it was interrupted by another thunk-chime. 

**_Two._ **

Yeah, like those thoughts. The things telling her what she couldn’t know otherwise. 

Even without the hatchet to prove it, she was still injured, blood dripping down her back. It probably _should_ have paralyzed her or something, a blow just off the center of her spine. But her body wasn’t right anymore. Injuries meant something else in these trials, making shallow wounds lethal and fatal wounds suddenly heal. 

She definitely wasn’t healing now, though. Had a creeping suspicion she might not even be able to right this second, anyway. And even if she _could_ move despite her injury, it still fucking _hurt._

_Pain is temporary. Pain is_ — _OW_ —

Sam grit her teeth. Yeah, no, she’d never been great with platitudes. And her legs were tingling, aching, feet going numb, like her body knew it should be more fucked than it was. The backwards mercy of the trials had to remind her of that, remind her that mobility was a gift at the moment. 

_Mobility_ was right. She’d been moved somewhere else. Away from where she’d been a second ago - away from the last spot the killer had seen her, luckily - but she had to get her bearings. 

It was like a glitch in the matrix or something. Getting her out of harm’s way, if only so she’d keep running.

The pain had shocked her back to her senses somewhat, tried to kill her _‘fuck all y’all I’m running this’_ attitude. And at that it had succeeded: she knew she wasn’t running things. But she was still holding off the fear. So it was still a victory in her book, at least so far. 

There was a scream and her sight zeroed in on someone being hooked not too far off.

Sam was still crouching behind cover. Another noise in the distance. It meant something, but she couldn’t name what. Another signal she’d have to learn.

Should she risk attempting to lure the killer again? Part of her itched for another taste of that thrill, that power that came from saying _fuck you_ to the thing that was hell bent on making her life miserable. (And short. Hell bent on making her life very very short.) Common sense argued against it. Self-preservation, too. But Jesus Christ, she was tired of self-preservation pumping her full of anxiety. It had felt so _good_ to be in control for just a moment.

Self-preservation was also telling her to find another survivor to heal her up. 

The lullaby was back, making the hair on her arms stand up. The air hummed against her skin, and Sam’s eyes lingered on her clenched fists. She could do this. She could pump herself full of spite and die knowing it was her choice. That had always been her plan. Screw the universe, she didn’t want to be here. The scars were testament to that. 

The heartbeat was dim, on the periphery of her perception, and Sam moved until it was gone again. Her climb up was slow and steady, determined in a particularly focused self-destructive way, and was almost quiet, until she reached the top of the scrap heap. The last lift up knocked loose a mirror, the impact as it fell down the tower echoing out over the thin mist that always seemed to cling to the ground. 

She turned toward the lullaby, eyeing her feet and the walls of crushed cars before she spotted the red light. Then she ran. 

Her thighs weren’t exactly used to running and jumping like this, but she forced them to do it. Energy was weird here, she could push as much as she wanted. And there was nothing to lose. No one truly dies. Death may be inevitable and inescapable, but it was impermanent. 

She was making a racket, and running out of space, but she had the benefit of knowing she’d be silent whenever she dropped. Another hatchet whizzed by her head, close enough that she could hear it whistle in the air, and Sam let out a terrified laugh.

She glanced back, and spotted the killer - _tall_ , very tall - running down the right side of the wall. Great. She’d drop left. It was like vaulting a window, she just had to pick the right spot mid-wall to force the killer to go around. 

Before hitting the end of her wall, she doubled back and dropped off the side of the stack. 

The banging from her run along the top still echoed in her ears, but just like before she dropped silently. The smart thing would be to sneak and hide and hope, but she didn’t have the patience or the optimism to think that that would work. So once she had her feet again, she just kept running. 

Part of her _wanted_ to just run out. To hit a wall and have nothing left to give. Her own masochistic tendencies usually relied on that: the release that only came when everything else was used up. The kind of fighting she liked relied on that, too, with the right partner. But things didn’t _matter_ in those fights— giving up _was_ winning, in those fights. Not here. 

Though it could be. 

Yeah. Why not?

Sam turned on her heel, her heartbeat slamming against her ribs and eyes wild. She opened her mouth to shout another taunt, to goad a response, but instead she yelped as another hatchet thudded down into her clavicle. 

It should’ve taken her down. 

It _did_ knock her to the ground, feeling like her collarbone was splintering apart, but _again_ she wasn’t where she’d just been. Like she’d left her brain behind when she’d been relocated, Sam’s scream of pain turned to manic laughter. This was _insane_ — this was fucking _ridiculous_. 

“ _Fuck you!_ ” It didn’t matter if she got caught, not now. She’d been useless the whole trial, anyway. Hell, she’d been useless the whole time, useless forever, every moment of her life. She was a goddamn punching bag, letting every hard moment hit her, every struggle send her flying. 

But _this_ was power, right here. Feeling like her body was on the verge of breaking apart, and laughing. “You can’t _fucking_ kill me, you cunt!” Her throat was sore, but she barely recognized it over the pain of the bone-deep lacerations from the hatchets. 

Sam was rarely so vocally outspoken. 

But that was in the real world, where there were consequences. Where she held her tongue to keep from making things worse for herself. Where she navigated social structures, said the right things to the right people, didn’t say the wrong things to the wrong people. 

Here, things were already as bad as they could be. Now she was just letting herself snap. And instead of hitting her limit, it just went on. Like all the physical impediments that had kept her one sane unbroken person were gone. Tears were streaming down her face, choking her breath, but she kept laughing. “What’s taking you so long, come and fucking get me.”

The lullaby was getting closer. 

She should be blacking out. That would be the correct response. But she was _definitely_ awake. Feeling a little blood drunk, but awake. 

Silhouettes moved in her sight, and as the auras came into focus, she realized at some point someone else had gotten hooked. She hadn’t heard it over all the rest of the noise in her head. 

Someone was around the corner. She wasn’t sure who, one of the other survivors, but she called out anyway. “Don’t bother.” Sam laughed, her voice shrill and hysteric. “Leave me, I’m good!” The figure hesitated, then turned away as the heartbeat got louder, and Sam went on, grinning as the fear washed over her uselessly. They couldn’t scare her. Not now, not like this. “I’m all set for dying. Can’t wait. Can’t _fuckin’_ wait to stop breathing once that _cunt of a killer_ gets over here.”

And well well well, there she was. Tall lady in a bunny mask. This was normal and not at all insane. Sam shrieked at the pain as she was pulled up over the woman’s shoulder, feeling the fracture in her collarbone worsen, cracking deeper, and the scream turned to a cackle. 

This was what hitting walls felt like when there were none. Everything was spilling out of her. 

Bloody hands grabbed for the back of the woman’s head, digging fingers in her hair to no effect. “Slit my throat,” she taunted. _Feral._ This was _feral._ “Do it. _Kill me_.”

The killer didn’t respond. Sam grabbed at the fabric under her with teeth and claws, thrashing.

The sound she made when the hook pierced through her was far from human. She hadn’t laughed this hard in years. Every jerking breath drilled the hook deeper, further through her chest, but she was far past caring. She was screaming and laughing and kicking and just trying to make it go faster. Death never came fast enough. _Do it do it do it do it._

**_Three._ **

That sent a new wave of maniacal laughter coursing through her. They were still playing. They were still trying. She’d done _fuck all_ , and the rest of them were still trying. 

She was done trying. She was done. It hadn’t taken long - one measly death - and she was over it. 

Those pincer-like legs were forming around her, radiating a burning heat, and Sam’s hands slipped against the bloody hook as she held onto it. She wasn’t trying to get herself down. Some morbidly curious part of her wondered if her collarbone was broken enough that it would just tear right through. 

She was shaking, practically seizing, the last sparks of energy as she burned through it all, voice dropping to a breathless chuckle. “Fuck-ing— _khhh_ -” That was blood in her chest, her throat, her mouth. Her lungs. Everything hurt. Every part of her was burning. This was the purest pain and she didn’t care anymore. She couldn’t even feel it. Her hands and feet were numb, a throbbing in her lip where she might have bitten through it, she wasn’t sure. Sam was a being of pure wild spite. 

There was nothing left to give, she was all burned up, running on smoke and fumes, and wheezing out every pointed gasp of laughter. Her terms. These were her terms. This was her choice and they couldn’t fucking take that from her. 

Something pierced straight through her and her world went white.

* * *

_It was a vacuum. Sound, sight— even the pain; it was being pulled out of her like taffy. Stretching, pulling, a ringing silence and emptiness._

_Not light, not darkness._

_She thought she’d given everything she had, but there must have been more because now it was being wrenched out of her into the yawning void._

_She was metal pulled through hole after hole, drawn out, distilling all of her from rope to wire to one thin filament. Everything that made her_ **_her_** _._ _All the color in her world. All the hope and pain and love in her, tugged through a pinhole in her chest, on and on, endlessly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably don't need to tell anyone this, but killing yourself out of spite is NOT A GOOD IDEA. Living to spite others, however? Or living to spite yourself? Sam is familiar with that train of thought as well, and it's far more productive. 
> 
> Anywho, welcome to another of Sam's odd perks. It's called Unwilling Survivor. There are more details to it that will become clear. ^^ 
> 
> As always, questions, comments, concerns and reactions are all loved and cherished and responded to by me ASAP because, among other reasons, I have a hyperfixation and love attention. And honesty. And am doing nothing else during this quarantine but writing and reading. 👌


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after the first sacrifice

Sam didn’t realize she was awake. 

She wasn’t sure how long she’d _been_ awake, but it must have been a while, because she was at the Campfire. She didn’t remember walking there. And there was a cup in her hands she didn’t remember taking. 

She felt hollow. 

Someone’s hand was on her shoulder and she hadn’t told them no. She would have told them no. Even if all she wanted at the moment was to curl up, to gather everything that had been taken from her, everything that had leaked out, and stuff it back in, and hold herself to keep it there.

It was all she could focus on. Her eyes were fixed on the fire, everything else darkness, but all she could feel was someone’s hand on her shoulder. She didn’t have the energy to shake it off. Her jaw was shut tight, and her joints were stiff, like she hadn’t moved in ages. Moving felt like a task she wasn’t sure she was up for. But someone was touching her, and it had her too aware.

There was sound, too. She’d zeroed in on the crackling of the fire over the ringing in her ears, but there were voices. Everything was muffled and unintelligible for a moment, like listening through a wall, but slowly the ringing died down and she could understand the hushed voices. 

“-surprised she came back at all.” Something hinted at the edge of her memory. Older, experienced, authoritative.

“…What exactly happened? Yui seemed pissed, Jake never talks about anything…” Younger. 

“I’ve seen some crazy shit in my day. Even before coming here. But honestly… it’s been a while since I saw something like that.” Who was it. They sounded familiar.

“We’re not talking about this.” Feminine this time. 

“She’s practically catatonic, barely blinked since she got out; I feel like it’s about time _someone_ talked about it—” The detective. That’s who it was, that was the distant light signaling somewhere in the empty recesses of her mind. What was his name…

“Jake’s right, it’s not our business what happened during the sacrifice. It was her first time. The first is always the worst.” The woman, that was who she’d been bunked with. The reporter type.

Who was touching her?

“It wasn’t the sacrifice, it was before.” Tapp. That was his name. “She was out of control, like the Doctor had gotten to her. The kind of stuff that’d get you sectioned.” Sectioned. _Committed._ Mandatory 72 hour observation. 

Sam’s fingers slipped and the cup between her hands clattered to the ground, rolling to the edge of the Campfire. 

The hand on her shoulder tightened. “Sam?” It was a different voice. A younger woman, barely familiar.

She blinked. Tried to see something other than the fire. 

“Sam, are you…” 

Her body was shaking. She needed that hand off of her right now. She needed to move, but she couldn’t, and even the strongest emotion she had, that surge of anxiety, felt buried under layers of apathy. Everything was slow and disconnected. Her wiring was fried. 

Her heart was going, though. Weak, but fast. The feeling was coming back to her fingers, and her skin felt too tight, a blanket of pins and needles. 

“…Sam…” 

Another hand reached for hers, and as soon as skin touched bare skin Sam jolted, sucking in a breath. There were spots in her vision, but it was coming back. And they’d let go. She was in control of her body again. Blinking the blur from her eyes, she finally looked around at the people gathered by the Campfire. Tapp, Zarina, Steve, Nancy. She could put names to them. That was a step in the right direction. 

Nancy looked startled, pulling her hands away at Sam’s sudden movement. Which was fair, Sam hadn’t been expecting it either. She’d had no expectations. No thoughts. Nothing. Only now was awareness settling back in, the switchboard in her head lighting up and clicking thoughts together again. 

Breathe. She’d ask what happened, but she couldn’t speak, and wasn’t sure she wanted to know. What she wanted was to crawl into a corner and never wake up. She wanted summer days and sunlight and autumn breezes and laughing like an idiot. Instead she had fog and fire and spindly legs ready to eviscerate her.

Hell. Instead, she had Hell.

“You back?” 

Sam caught Steve’s cautious gaze, then her eyes moved over the rest of them. Each one wary or gentle and on edge, like she might snap. Her neck felt stiff, and she could almost hear her joints creaking as she nodded slowly. She hated being looked at like that. 

Zarina stood. “Want me to walk you back to bed?” She didn’t offer a hand. Good. Sam didn’t want one. 

Sam nodded again, and stood up, wincing at the rush of blood suddenly surging through a long-stagnant body. How long had she been sitting there? How had she gotten there? 

Zarina walked close, but not too close. Sam remembered that she was the newest survivor aside from herself. Maybe she remembered it better, the aftermath of the first sacrifice. Feeling like everything had been scooped and scraped out of her. 

“I’m glad you’re back.”

 _I don’t even know you,_ Sam thought. _You shouldn’t be._ But as seemed to be the norm after these trials, she didn’t want to open her mouth. 

“They didn’t think you’d make it.”

_I heard._

“Apparently… sometimes people just… don’t come back.”

_If only._

“But if you’re here, it means you’re strong, Sam.” Zarina’s voice was low. It was comforting, but not patronizing. She was speaking to her seriously, but confidentially, knowing Sam was listening even if she didn’t respond. It was respectful. And it meant a hell of a lot. 

Sam’s eyes watched the ground, then lifted to pass over the structures they passed on their way to their lean-to. 

Zarina stayed with her, silent but present. When they got to the open shelter, she hovered outside. “I’m assuming you want to sleep. But if you want to go to the water, I’ll go with you.” The river most of the survivors used for bathing. Didn’t want to risk using drinkable water for that sort of thing, when they didn’t know how long it would last. 

Sam shook her head, going straight for the blanket and nudging her makeshift mattress into the corner with her foot before dropping down and wrapping the fabric tight around her, face to the wall. 

She wasn’t sure what to expect, but Zarina settled down as well. Not too close, not too far away. A flashlight was pointed up at the ceiling, though Sam had no idea what she’d need the light for. There wasn’t anything to read, as far as Sam was aware, and definitely no paper to write on. Nothing to do besides wait for the next trial. 

Another trial… after all of this…

She was so tired. It had only been two nights and she was already so tired and so broken. 

Sam curled further in on herself, tucking her head under the edge of the blanket, and—

God. She hadn’t noticed it before, but now it was like a little match sparking up. The collar of her jacket smelled like home. Somewhere in the pit that was her empty chest, new light flared: comfort. 

She heard a soft humming from Zarina, a tune she didn’t recognize, but that added another bit of tinder: hope. Something to fill that emptiness. Something to fuel her. 

Something that would keep her going until daylight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one for you this time. Also quite angsty. Had to add that hurt/comfort tag for the next couple chapters, actually, because *damn* gettin' sacrificed fucks you up. 
> 
> As much as I reeeeally want to put up two chapters today, I will force myself to hold off til I get the next Big Chapter written. It should be very good. I have many Plans. But it requires more research, so that comes first ><
> 
> Thoughts? I know I have a very specific version of the Entity's realm that I'll be including over the next couple chapters as well, and I'm curious to know people's thoughts on it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> camp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally finished writing that scene I wanted to write. It is… surprisingly horny. But more importantly: it's finished. As much as I should wait a day to post more (or a few hours, whatever), I have no patience and am very excited to get that up, and that's two chapters away, so… here!

The thing about hating being touched, was that Sam wanted _so badly_ to be touched. She wanted a hug, but she didn’t want to ask for one, and she didn’t want it from any of these people she didn’t know. She just wanted to be held by her mom. Or even her dad, despite their rocky relationship. She wanted someone who knew her, who she trusted, and she wanted to be pulled against somebody else and made to feel safe. 

For now, she had to make do walking around camp with her blanket tight around her shoulders, and avoid looking anyone in the eye. 

She’d completely broken. 

She remembered some of that, now. Remembered blood spilling from her lips as she laughed and screamed and fed the Entity all of her excess. It had felt so freeing in the moment, spilling it all out of her, but the aftermath was that miserable echoing hollow. She’d preferred having her rib cage bisected, at least that had left her with anger. Being left with _nothing…_

Pulling the blanket tighter again, hearing the fabric squeak against her jacket in a way fabric really shouldn’t, that was the best she could do for comfort. She couldn’t ask for help, not from people who were still giving her looks like they expected her to implode any second. She wasn’t good at asking for help, anyway. More likely to force herself through it, no matter the toll it took on her.

 _See, this is why you do therapy,_ came a soft thought through her savaged mind.

But that wasn’t exactly an option here. Neither was medication. Not that she’d been taking it before she ended up here… that was _why_ she’d ended up here, because she _hadn’t_ taken her meds. 

_If at first you don’t succeed… die die again._

Sam choked on a laugh, fingertips turning white with how tightly she held the blanket. 

She’d taken a seat in the mess, thinking maybe forcing herself into a place surrounded by others would be good for her. In real life, it could be. But she usually _knew_ people in real life. The other survivors… they were still strangers to her. And now she was the psycho laughing to herself in the corner of the room. The one who’d gleefully thrown herself on the hook. Her lips pulled into a small frown, wincing. All kinds of mistakes. Two deaths in one night. 

A hand thrust into her field of vision, holding out a worn cloth bag. 

She blinked out of her muddled thoughts, glancing up, and was surprised to find Jake. Who she’d hardly heard from since he’d solemnly informed her that _no one ever truly dies._ He didn’t look happy, but she wasn’t sure he ever was. Broody boy. But he looked determined, gesturing with the bag again. “Come on. We’re scavenging.”

What?

“Get up.”

She didn’t have it in her to argue. And couldn’t get her mouth to work once she wanted to, when they stopped by her bunk and he gestured to leave the blanket. She liked that blanket. But she complied. It was for the best: she needed to move, not wallow. She’d been through enough crashes to know that moving was, unfortunately, good for recovery. 

Jake wasn’t much of a talker. In fact, a few minutes in Sam still wasn’t sure if it had been his idea to take her or not. They’d passed through empty forest at first, but now it was getting denser, and Jake veered right. 

She wanted to ask what they were doing, where they were going, but she still had deadmouth. And the air wasn’t bad. Ten million times better than the void. 

The brush broke to a looser array of trees, and Sam realized that this was how the survivors got their food. There were fruit trees— or, at least, there were a few of them. It all felt wrong, like they shouldn’t be blooming, but it was just one of those impossibilities. Weather wasn’t what it should be. Plants didn’t bloom as they should. It was all fabricated; their little waiting room between trials. 

Jake moved confidently through it all, and Sam wondered if he’d done something like this before he ever got pulled here. He plucked an apple from one of the first trees, and held it out to her. “Eat.”

…Sam’s brow furrowed. What was he trying to do?

“I know we don’t need to, but you should.”

But there was no purpose, it wasn’t like they could take any sort of nutrition from the things. 

“Fine.” He shook his head, looking about as pissed as was his norm, and reached his empty hand into his own bag, more full than the one he’d handed her. 

Sam stiffened, eyes stuck on the item he’d pulled out. Loops of rope. A noose. 

“This what you want?”

Her gaze flicked from the noose to his sharp gaze and back again, wary. It wasn’t a threat. He wasn’t threatening her, and even if he was _angry_ it wasn’t the kind of angry she’d expected. 

“You’re not the first to try it. But if you’re going to do it, I don’t want Claudette or Kate to have to pull you down.” Was he serious? “It won’t work. You’ll pass out, or break your neck, but you can’t die outside of the trials. It’ll only make for an awkward cleanup for whoever needs to help get you back down. So if you’re going to try it, do it now, while I’m already here.”

This was just… He was so desensitized to it. It was surreal. There was something to his tone, too. As exasperated as he might be, even with that flat affect, there was something under it, a kind of compassion she hadn’t expected. 

She was tempted. Her gaze lingered on the rope. 

It was probably severely fucked up that she filed this away for later reference. Because in a way, he was right: she wouldn’t want Claudette or Kate to be the ones finding a body, either. So if she had to get it out of her system at some point… 

Wow, she really was just setting up her suicide speed dial with Jake, wasn’t she? Another point in the long list of _shit’s fucked up._

Sam took the apple.

* * *

As per usual, once her mouth was working again, the seal was broken. She could talk. But she didn’t. But it had snapped her back into herself some more, gradually pulling all her unspooled threads back to center. 

Jake walked her through more of the camp essentials. They were in what was called the orchard, the place where food grew. Not exactly in season, and not always reliably, but that wasn’t a problem since they didn’t need to eat. He was right, though, that they should. The food wasn’t some kind of manna from the gods or anything, but it was enjoyable, it was sustaining and affirming. 

It made sense, once Sam’s mind worked on it a bit. Based on how they talked about the Entity, based on what she’d experienced with the sacrifice… They were a renewable resource. By giving them the ability to build lives, it kept replenishing them to be harvested again. Like… crop rotation. Was that how crop rotation worked? She wasn’t a farmer. But logically it fit. 

The orchard was for fruit and a few vegetables. Someone at some point had arranged the smaller plants into plots, though they didn’t really do the seeds thing, so Sam assumed there was some other reasoning behind it. Maybe just familiarity. Or aesthetics. It might have just been to have something to do. 

The river, on the other side of the Campfire from the structures, was for swimming and bathing, and Jake had put together some crude filtering system in case something ever happened and they lost their working sink or cistern. There was the field that they always came through on their way back to the Fire, but it was heavy with fog at all times, and the standard belief was that venturing out into it was asking for trouble. No one would _choose_ to go back into a trial. 

The forest itself was made up of four basic territories. The orchard, of course, which was closest to camp. Then there was the… _forest_ forest. Which, y’know… was just forest? In context, it was the part that wasn’t the other parts. Where Jake talked about hunting. Sam never saw animals, but he assured her that traps sometimes caught small game. And there were always the crows. 

“You’ll hate them too, soon. We can set you up with a sling, hitting one of those fuckers feels good.” 

She cracked a slight smirk at that. He’d warmed up a bit the longer they were away from the others. It probably helped that she wasn’t talking much. Jake seemed like more of a lone wolf than some of the other survivors, but he was probably one of the most helpful for the camp as a whole. Sam wondered if it was something he was proud of, or if it was a burden. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to handle having so many people look to her for survival advice, especially when she already knew people could be absolute idiots sometimes. (Working the service industry taught that sort of thing quickly.)

Further into the forest, turning the opposite way than the orchard, there was a clearing: half meadow and half hollow tree trunks and a couple inexplicable rock structures, like they used to be the rubble-like caves at the base of a mountain but there wasn’t a mountain anymore. (The land was almost completely flat everywhere, Sam had noticed that. Unnaturally so, but everything wasn’t quite natural here.) It almost felt like a settlement itself, moved from elsewhere, that had been long-abandoned and grown over. 

It was a place Jake hesitated when talking about. There were useful herbs for medicinal things, he explained, pointing them out and picking a few to show her. Claudette was the expert on those. She’d tried replanting some in the orchard but they’d withered, so it was generally accepted that they were unique to the clearing. Which probably had something to do with the fog. 

It only came at night, during the trials, and no one wanted to go to the clearing while the fog was there. But in the daylight, once the sky was grey instead of black, there were sometimes things to scavenge. Items that shouldn’t be there, that somehow were. Tools for the trials, sometimes, or items useful in camp, like rope or flint. While talking, he’d paused, eyes on the ground, and had pulled an old coin from where it was half-hidden under a knot of weeds. 

The way Jake talked about the items was how they all talked about the weirdness that was the Entity. Some mix of resentment and wariness. Things could be a gift, but they still came from the Beast itself. Hard to resist looking a gift horse in the mouth if it was gifted by someone who was just _constantly stabbing_ you. 

On the other side of the clearing was the no-no zone. Well, it wasn’t called that. It also wasn’t _specifically_ called forbidden. It was just called the Deep Forest. With all the emphasis that capitalization could carry, like the Entity. It was where things got weird. 

Standing at the edge of it while Jake continued searching the clearing, Sam could feel it, too. It was like holding two magnets North to North. She was repelled by it, almost repulsed by it. There were whispers coming from in there. The trees were close together, and the shadows seemed to cling and spread, blocking her sight from going too far. Survivors didn’t belong there. Jake had curtly informed her that, as risky as the clearing felt at night, the Deep Forest was that at all times. Don’t go looking unless you want hallucinations at best and another round of psychological torment at worst. Just don’t go looking. 

By the time she’d been walked through the whole camp, Sam felt a little more human. Not as empty. Still somewhat exhausted, but she’d been free of pointed stares and sidelong glances and the general aura of stigma she’d felt around the other survivors. Jake hadn’t mentioned anything about the trial of the night before. 

Suddenly, Sam realized that he’d been one of her teammates. From what she’d overheard, it was Jake, Tapp, and Yui. Yui had gotten killed, maybe - Sam wasn’t entirely sure since no one had talked to her about it - but Tapp and Jake had made it out as far as she was aware. So he’d witnessed all of that. Was he the silhouette she’d told to leave her? 

The memory alone was enough to knock the breath out of her, but she just let her eyes linger on her hands.

Regardless, however much he’d seen, if he’d been right there as her mind broke or not, she appreciated his silence. And appreciated that he’d tried to stop others from talking about it as well. From what she’d gathered, he’d been here a long time, and had seen a lot. His silent understanding was unexpected, but it felt good. Not quite friendship, not exactly, she doubted he labeled much as _friendship_ , but there was a bond there. 

She stood by, contentedly quiet, as Jake unpacked their bags into the storeroom in the main cabin. After setting aside the produce for whoever would be cooking that night, and placing the bits and bobs like trinkets on a shelf, he paused, pulling out a looped up wire of some kind before slipping it into his back pocket. 

Sam watched, curiously. “Can I ask you a question?” 

The look he shot her was vaguely irritated, but Sam didn’t take it personally. She’d bet he’d forgotten that she was talking again. 

She didn’t wait for a response. “You have a hunting knife. You mentioned a sling. We have weapons; why can’t we fight back against the killers?”

The annoyance was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. There was the slightest nod to his head as Jake stood up, heading to a rack to hang back up their bags. “Doesn’t work. Can’t bring weapons into the trials. Believe me, I have this baby on me all the time.” He tapped at the hilt on his belt. “It never comes through the fog.”

Sam nodded back. Made sense. “What about during the trial? Finding items in the area, making improvised weapons.”

Jake’s thumb rubbed at the butt of the knife, thoughtfully. “Laurie can. And there are some things that work, if we find them during…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “I’m not the one to explain. Claudette, maybe. Or Adam. Meg or Dwight have been around a while, too, they’ve done the explanation.”

Ah. There was a whole _explanation,_ was there? 

Sam hadn’t met Adam yet, but she’d seen him around. Hi-top haircut, quiet, seemed like a softie. He’d been avoiding her, maybe, but she suspected it was mostly so he wouldn’t get in the way of the Very Important Lessons of the day before. Meg had helped with the vaulting tutorial, and had been part of one of her trials, with Claudette and Dwight. If she had to choose any of them… Claudette seemed the obvious choice. If Claudette would have her. 

There weren’t as many whispers or looks as there had been earlier, at least. Fewer people in the mess, with most out by the river or their own bunks or doing… whatever they did to kill time. 

Days were shorter here, she had noticed that. When she brought it up to Jake, he explained they’d calculated out a 12-hour day/night cycle. Four hours light, six hours dark, one of dawn and one of dusk (though no one had actually seen a _sun_ as far as she could gather). There were several trials in a night, but not everyone had them all the time. Someone might have a couple days off, or do two a night day after day. 

“To be honest, you’re probably off the hook for a night or two.”

Sam choked on a sudden half-frantic laugh. When Jake just looked at her quizzically, she felt her lips quirk up in a bemused smile. “‘Off the hook?’” Had he really not realized that? It was so perfectly delivered. 

“Oh. Yeah. No, I mean, yes. You won’t be hooked. You won’t be in trials at all.”

Sam bit her tongue, holding back from saying _yeah got that, dumbass, it was a joke._ But part of her was relieved to notice herself censoring again. It meant she cared what these people thought, and expected to be working together with them. So she didn’t want to fuck up any social relationships. A good sign for the future. 

…Which was of indeterminate length and quality. Great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's some lore on my version of the Entity's realm. Very curious to know people's thoughts on it, I know there are a lot of takes on this sort of thing, and that is mine.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a night without trials

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some more comforting. Sam needs it. ❤

Jake was right: Sam wasn’t whisked away that night. 

Considering she was too apathetic to feel appropriately nervous just in case, that made sense. Still too empty from the last reaping. 

Instead, she was one of the ones waiting by the Campfire, for once. Kate was there as well, at least for now, and David, and the guy named Jeff who had a kind of stoic/gentle giant thing going on, despite the badass facial scar. It was mostly quiet, no one seeming to have much to say. 

Sam sat on the ground, fascinated by the Fire. It didn’t burn them, only certain trinkets or ‘offerings’ that some of the survivors threw in. She’d found that out her first night, sticking her hand right into it. 

With a disconnected curiosity, she stuck a foot in this time, propping it up on one of the ever-burning logs. “…So fuckin’ weird…” she murmured, watching the sparks go up from the agitation, and the flames lick harmlessly at her boots. No burning rubber or anything. 

She glanced up at the sound of rustling grass, but it wasn’t from the field with the fog, just coming from the structures. Jake. He held something out to Kate, and Sam watched her light up like it was her birthday or something. 

“You found one!”

One what? Jake only nodded and disappeared, and Sam was left wondering what exactly Kate was talking about. Then _she_ disappeared, sounding excited. 

Sam would’ve thought excitement was impossible here, especially after last night, but apparently not. And she was even more surprised when Kate came back a couple minutes later - practically skipping over the grass - with a guitar. How the hell did she get a guitar?

She took her seat by the Fire again, and Sam recognized the loop of wire Jake had tucked in his pocket earlier. Oh. A guitar string. 

“Snapped my A-string ages ago, didn’t think I’d ever get another,” Kate explained, beaming. 

“The ol’ fucker must be happy about something,” David muttered, nonchalantly. Sam felt his gaze pass over her briefly, and she fidgeted but avoided glancing up. The implication, that her sacrifice had been something of note - at least that’s what she _thought_ he was implying - could’ve been meant as a compliment or an insult, it was unclear. 

Kate ignored David’s comment, instead focusing on restringing and tuning the instrument by ear. 

If the Entity wanted her on a fast-track back to hopeful, that was one way to do it. 

Sam leaned back against the log, closing her eyes and listening to the distinct sounds of fingers on frets, every little slide and extra brush against the strings. Music. One of those _light in the dark_ things. 

Kate may have leaned far more country than Sam usually went for, but music was music. And a few classics never went wrong. She played a mean Jolene, and Sam was smiling to herself - even if it was small - by the time it was over, shifting her leg out of the flames and back against the log. 

After Dolly came John Denver, and Sam very nearly joined in on the chorus, adding her own ache to be taken back home. But she didn’t. Too self-conscious, and not wanting to let a single ounce of newfound hope slip past her lips. She did, however, find herself gradually drawn toward the sound, inching toward Kate minutely. 

By the time Kate started plucking at strings, launching into Helplessly Hoping, a hauntingly melancholy melody that Sam knew too well from her own childhood, she felt so full that she hurt in the best way. Sam rolled onto her back, resting her head on the top of Kate’s feet and letting the vibration, the hum in the air, soothe her. Taking slow breaths through her nose, trying not to cry, she found herself humming quietly, harmonizing. 

In any other situation she’d find it painfully cheesy. Cringeworthy. But in an empty endless night, it was just what she needed. 

No: she needed a hug, too. But for now, resting on top of Kate’s boots would be enough, feeling body heat on one side and the warmth of the fire on the other. 

How was this guitar allowed by the Entity? It was so fucking powerful. 

_Jesus._ _She shouldn’t be allowed to play that._

Once Kate was just a few words into Bridge Over Troubled Water, Sam was overflowing again, and she curled toward the log, toward Kate, hiding her tears from the others who’d gathered around at the sound of the freshly-stringed guitar. She didn’t like crying in front of other people. But there was no other response. She hooked a hand around one of Kate’s boots, stifling her sniffles in her jacket sleeve. 

She kind of felt like an idiot. Just a little bit. 

But a bigger bit felt so grateful and so seen and just… 

Relief. Waves of relief. 

She wasn’t looking at the fire anymore, or the others who’d come to join, just listening. Kate seemed to have endless stamina when it came to music. Someone brought her water and she was set for the night. When another survivor requested a song, Kate sent them off to grab chord notation from her bunk. Apparently, even with paper a rare find, Kate got rights to it for the purposes of bringing in a little levity. 

Kate wasn’t the only one to sing, then. Sam didn’t turn to look, but she tried to place faces to voices. Ace definitely requested The Gambler, that was obvious, and his voice joining in wasn’t the most on-key thing, but it sure was enthusiastic. David was quieter than she’d expected, requesting some slow song that he sang on his own, with a voice that rang surprisingly clear for a guy who Sam had mostly assumed was a meathead.

They were taking a break, a breather, when the first of the current three trials stumbled back from the field. One sacrifice, three escapes out the exit against the Spirit. 

Sam felt kind of bad for monopolizing Kate’s feet, forcing her to sit still, but Kate never mentioned it, just let her stay. It was the kind of peaceful coexistence that Sam found just the right level of comforting. Zarina had done it the night before, being there and humming her song and simply sharing space. Never trying to get too close, never pushing themselves on her. She was slow to get close to people, Sam knew that about herself. Slow to make contact.

The next trial returned, sounding less pleased. Another song helped lessen the tense atmosphere. Then the third, bringing good tidings of a full escape, and a few items for the storeroom. 

Once they’d mostly headed off for food or drink or an attempt at sleep, the air around the Fire grew tense again. The first three trials of the night were done. But there would be at least two more, maybe four. Anyone could be drawn away into the fog. 

Kate played wordless tunes, little patterns up and down the strings. People paced. Sam stayed curled up on the ground, hiding from the rest of them, her breath evening out. The noise of the fire was nice. Kate’s noodling filled the air, a comforting melodic wandering that reminded Sam of summer. She didn’t even realize when she fell asleep. 

* * *

She woke as someone touched her arm briefly, just a momentary gentle poke. It was Kate. 

“I have to go Sam, I’ve got a trial.” 

How did she already know? But Sam didn’t ask, not wanting to waste the precious pre-trial time Kate might need to get tools or offerings done. She just rolled back into a seated position, letting Kate’s legs go free so she could scamper off toward her bunk. She left the guitar. 

The Fire was mostly empty again. Jeff was still where he’d been. Zarina was back from her earlier trial, looking tired but definitely alive. 

“Others are already gone?” Sam asked in a murmur.

Zarina nodded. “A group about half an hour ago, and one in the last ten minutes or so, and now Kate, Bill, Dwight, and Adam.”

“How did they know?”

Zarina briefly glanced at Sam before looking back to the fire. Never staring too long, letting Sam have some privacy, even in the public area. “You get a feeling for it. Start to sense it coming, it gives you a chance to prepare a little more.”

Sam nodded. She hadn’t said it in so many words, but there was an implication there, that this would be easier now that she’d already been sacrificed once. Whatever connection there was between survivors and the Entity, hers was open now. A blessing and a curse. 

Kate didn’t come back to the Campfire, disappearing along with her teammates until their trial finished. Sam took the chance to look around. Most that weren’t in trials had already tucked in. There was noise by the river, so at least one person was taking advantage of the cover of dark to take a private bath. The single bulb was still on in the mess hall, but that could just be out of habit. A sign that power was still running in the one place they had it. 

When she turned her attention to her companions, Sam spotted Jeff eyeing Kate’s guitar. “Do you play?” She wouldn’t be opposed to more music. It had done as much for her here as medication might’ve in the outside world. 

Jeff looked a little nervous, eyes skirting away. “Eh, a little. Not much. Kate was teaching me more, but…” He trailed off. 

Sam reached back for the neck of the instrument, “Do you want to-”

“No, no, it’s alright.” Ah. With the way he was fidgeting, Sam had a feeling he may have been responsible for the broken string. “Not exactly an acoustic connoisseur, anyway.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam kicked her feet back up into the flames again, enjoying the sensation, like warm water lapping at her ankles. 

“Nice shirt, by the way,” he offered a lopsided smile. “I really got into music in the 90s. More into metal than grunge, but Nevermind was a classic regardless.” 

The corner of Sam’s mouth lifted. Before she could continue the discussion, another group exited the fog. 

David looked haggard and irritated, heading straight for his bunk (and Sam immediately decided he definitely hadn’t made it out in one piece), Nancy and Quentin were in the middle of a quiet conversation that headed for the mess, and Min looked pissed. 

“Pinkie Pie dropped me on the hatch.”

_Sorry, what? Come again?_ Sam kept her face blank, but was very tempted to laugh. 

“Ah, Susie’s a good kid,” Jeff gestured weakly with one hand as he watched the ground, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I can’t fucking stand Legion,” Min shook her head. 

…What did those things have to do with each other? “Who’s Pinkie Pie?” It felt like the question least likely to piss Min off more. 

“The Legion one with the pink hair.”

“Her name’s Susie,” Jeff added again, with just a touch more confidence, despite Min’s sidelong glance. 

“There are multiple Legions?” That was news. She’d assumed all the killers were singular people. “We were only against one when I saw him.” _And got absolutely punk’d by that dipshit._

“There are four,” Zarina said, calmly, before Min could launch into any kind of rant. “Two male, two female. At least, so we assume.”

Min opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it and curtly informed them she was done for the night before leaving the three alone. 

“Frank, Susie, Julie, Joey,” Jeff added. 

Sam’s eyes narrowed at the man, a little more awake. How did he know this, exactly?

“Only one ever gets chosen for a trial at a time. We have had two trials with them simultaneously, though,” Zarina reported. “They’re the only killer so far that swaps out— again; or so we assume. There’s a lot we don’t know about a lot of the killers. Legion is an exception.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why.”

Zarina’s eyes shot over to Jeff, and Sam followed her look, staring. Politeness was all well and good, but now she wanted to know. And apparently Jeff was the one with the answers. 

“I, uh. They’re from my hometown. ‘Cept like, from when I was in high school.”

That didn’t make sense. _Then again, what else is new._ Nothing here ever made sense. She really needed to accept that and move on. Add time shenanigans to the list of grievances.

“Frank was a regular at the video store I worked at,” Jeff went on. “Ran a gang called the Legion. Hired me to do a mural at the old ski resort.” 

Right. She’d seen that, when looking for a balcony. “Which one’s which?” And more importantly, which one of those fuckers had ripped her rib cage open?

“Um… Frank’s got the tattoo on the neck. Susie’s got the pink hair. Julie’s the tall blonde, Joey has the skull mask.” 

Admittedly, most of that information was stuff she’d have to set aside for later, cause she didn’t have any frame of reference, but now she had a name. Now that asshole wasn’t the only one who could throw around names, or nicknames. Sammy was a parent-only nickname, and one she hadn’t heard since she was probably eight or nine. He didn’t have the right to that. She’d see how he liked being _Frankie_. 

“And… you think Susie’s sweet?” That felt hard to believe. They were a gang of killers. Hell, someone had _died_ in that past trial. It wasn’t even in question; the girl was a killer. And he was going with ‘sweet’?

“Well, she was when I met her. Cute kid, still in school, multicolor braces. Even here she’s been—” He cut himself off suddenly. 

Oh, _now_ he chose to stop talking? How about not. “You think anything like that holds over once they get here?” Sam prompted, voice mild, watching him carefully. 

“Well… I mean, they’re not too bad. To me, at least.” So killers gave preferential treatment? Interesting. “I never actually met Julie before here, so trials with her are like with any other killer. But Susie’s a real sweet girl. Tries not to hook me more than twice if she can help it. Brought me to the hatch a few times.”

Right, Legion - Frank - had mentioned that. Taking pity on a survivor. 

“Joey plays hard during, but once the gates are open he’s fine with me leaving if I can get there.”

There was conspicuously one name missing. “…And Frank?”

“Frank?” Jeff repeated, lips pursing as he shook his head. “Bastard still plays the same. Just talks more. Usually it’s worse, to be honest. I’m not a fan of smalltalk while getting stabbed. Or having him loiter while I’m hooked for a little chat time.” He let out a soft breath. “Guy’s a bastard through and through, but he’s apologized for it at least. Says it’s just part of the game, not to take it personal. He gave me the hatch one time only. I think he just felt bad for me, though. Probably was a little high on a couple moris, feeling generous.”

_“You know, occasionally we just… take one of you little pups to the hatch. Out of pity. If we’re feeling generous.”_

So he hadn’t been lying about that, at least. “…Do other killers do that? Take someone to the hatch?”

Jeff shrugged a shoulder. Zarina answered instead. “Seems like it’s not unheard of. I’ve never had it happen, personally… I think most of the others have, at least once. If you’ve done that many trials… Maybe the killers just get tired of killing?” Even she sounded skeptical. 

Sam studied her bunkmate for a moment. She’d been asking people about this stuff, hadn’t she? She was a reporter, or a filmmaker or something. She’d been doing research. “Are there patterns? Certain killers more likely to spare people?”

Zarina met her gaze, and it was like a little switch flipping, a moment of understanding. “I want to set up a table for this sort of thing,” Zarina admitted, launching into talk like she’d been asked about her thesis. “But paper’s hard to get. I thought we might be able to do some analysis, maybe even look around the trial grounds for clues on why the killers are the way they are. It could maybe help us combat them better— or even help us _understand_ them, figure out how they’re connected to the Entity, and the trials— maybe we could make _peace_ and—” She faltered. 

Yeah, they both knew that wasn’t happening.

But getting spared… that was an idea. Figuring out who did what, under what conditions. That kind of information could be invaluable. Already, Sam had more intel on at least one killer. Or, four, actually: Legion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… name-dropping songs always makes me feel a little eh. 😅 But I tried to only name classics, things that can't get too dated cause they already are. Didn't even name David's, cause I figured it would be some kind of somber drinking song, maybe. Tbh I was thinking of The Parting Glass, but that's Irish so idk. Could've learned it from a friend. Who knows. 
> 
> If you want a track listing, here are some acoustic covers: [Jolene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=awZP70_EMTw), [Country Roads](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RpZDG-jK4Iw), [Helplessly Hoping](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zyM4hDwo5AM), [Bridge Over Troubled Water](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QyY5x-Efhcg), [The Gambler](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cact38SKcwI), and heck why not let's go with [The Parting Glass](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otuCJ8ZmGKc). Or [the full playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL5rMk09OCTxUTEIOoxsyGRoOKp1XOKj5y). (Fuck it, I made a graphic.) 
> 
> [ ](https://onewhoturns.tumblr.com/post/617686342600654848/)
> 
> Next chapter, though.  
>  HOO BUD, next chapter.  
>  It's a good one. V dark and v Legion.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trial five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the tag changes, friends. Some were changed over time to streamline or add tropes, but always note the tags. 
> 
> Anyway, horny for fear back at it again.

Sure enough, just as Zarina had explained, Sam knew when her next trial came. 

She felt the fog creeping around her ankles, clammy and ominous. _Gross._ But it gave her time to prepare, if she wanted to, and someone offered her a toolbox to take with. For a second she hesitated, aware that she had all of one item to her name at the moment, and the flashlight was back in her bunk. She shouldn’t turn down more resources. Besides, there were still some survivors that were avoiding her. No one explicitly said so, but she could tell. Tapp, definitely. Yui. And a couple others seemed on the fence. 

She took the toolbox. 

What else could she do? She didn’t have any kind of offering for the Fire. She just shifted foot to foot, frowning, trying to consider what could actually be useful. Speed, stealth, strategy. Survival. 

Combing her hair back, pulling it up into a— ah. Right. No hair tie. 

…Dammit, now she couldn’t stop thinking about it, the hair that seemed to cling to her skin, annoying the hell out of her. Little bits of control. She pulled off her chokers, wrapping them tight over and over again until her hair was back in a ponytail. Good. She’d done that. This was… _kind of_ preparing. 

Look, it was the best she could do. She turned her shirt inside out again, too. Think ahead. Try to think ahead. 

And then she felt the cool sliding up to her knees, an out-of-place breeze tickling her neck, and she knew it was too late to do anything else. Her knuckles went white on the toolbox handle. 

* * *

As soon as Sam got sight of her surroundings, she felt her shoulders sag. No big buildings, just a shack. No high structures apart from a few rocks. Even the trees didn’t have low branches. Unless there was some way up in the shack, the best she’d be able to do for high ground would be climbing walls, and they didn’t look particularly promising. 

Deep breath. 

She wasn’t planning on getting sacrificed this match, that was for sure. She’d had plenty of that. So it seemed she’d be playing the game, after all. 

…Or, at least, that had been her _intention_ , but the first generator she came across… didn’t exactly look welcoming. 

Sam really hadn’t wanted to see those pincer-like legs again so soon. She tried to shrug off the way her skin crawled at the sight. Fine. She’d find another gen. This was fine. 

The toolbox banged against her shin as she made her way through the woods, staying low. Another blocked generator, great. She kept moving.

And then, of course, came the heartbeat. 

Fuck, without getting some kind of overview she didn’t know where to run. And it was getting louder. Sam was crouched low, and circled around the base of the tree she was hidden by, tucking herself and the toolbox in among the high roots. 

_Oh this motherfucker_ —

She choked on air, letting out a sharp noise of pain at the deep thrust of the blade down onto her shoulder, but then she was gone. Not at the tree. Instead, in the shack. 

She’d seen who the killer was, though, before getting snapped out of one spot and into another. Fucking Legion. And how the hell had he even known she was there? She was pretty sure it was the same guy, too. She hadn’t gotten to see much of him - a hit-and-run that was made even briefer by her odd gift of teleportation - but the mask was memorable, with that blood-smeared smile. And she thought she’d seen the letterman jacket, too, but… well, teleporting. 

Which, by the way, was that just a _thing_ now? It hadn’t happened before, in other trials. Just with the axe bunny. Legion had _definitely_ stabbed her before, too, and it hadn’t happened then. Something new, then.

There was blood soaking through the front of her jacket. The wound was deeper than she’d thought. As soon as she tried to move, that became clear, wincing at even the subtlest shift of her arm. She transferred the toolbox to her other hand resting on the ground, and tried to put pressure on the wound, like that might do something. 

And weirdly… it did? Like little threads were being drawn from her skin to stitch back over the gash. Another round of goosebumps for that. Still weird. Still super weird every time there was that supernatural healing. She kept her hand pressed to the spot as she glanced around and got her bearings. 

_Ha._

That dumbass had sent her straight to an open generator. Perfect. 

Moving didn’t exactly work with the weird touch-to-heal skin-stitches thing. Which meant glancing around constantly and waiting for it to be done, trying to look out of doors and windows to spot another glimpse at red light. Or another survivor. She could probably use more help with the rest of her healing. The wound may have been sewn up, but it was still cut deep. Movement was still sending aches shooting down her arm, and she intuitively knew that she'd be limping until she fixed it. 

No one else in sight, but that was fine. There was a scream, but it was pretty far off. She glanced to the aura in her vision, and decided against venturing back toward killer territory. Even if she _did_ get blinked elsewhere in the forest, it meant she’d have to heal again, and she might need to search again to find a viable generator. And from the distant echo of a foot slamming into freshly-sparking wiring… Generators weren’t going to be done any time soon. Speaking of which… Sam moved to the shack's generator and started work on repairs. The toolbox was helpful, making things go a little faster, but it was still a chore. 

Another scream, another aura. But if she left now, she’d be giving up on what was probably a super important task for her team. And she was really _trying_ to be a team player right now. For once, she actually knew who she was in a trial with: Nea, Adam, and Quentin. Did she know what that meant? Not exactly. And she suspected Nea might still harbor a grudge from that first trial, but hey: Sam was helping this time. At great risk to her personal safety, too. So there. 

More banging, and this time it was closer. Shit. Maybe it was time to pause the repairs, then. 

Sam briefly glanced at the stairs down to her right. Hiding place, sure, but there probably wasn’t another exit, either. It was a dead end. The heartbeat started up, and she tried to be as quiet as possible as she dropped everything to take cover beside the pallet by the door. If he came in the front she could sneak in his wake, if he came in the back she’d have a pallet to throw down.

She waited. Listened. Glanced around for signs of red light. 

Was the heartbeat getting farther away? The killers moved so fast, Christ. With her stuck limping, it was a nerve wracking wait. 

There, red light along the other wall, heading around the back corner. She carefully inched around the pallet and out the front door. 

_OR NOT fuck wait_ —

Quickly she stood and stepped back into the shack, hands on the pallet as the killer approached, ready to bring it down on him. Tricky bastard. Backtracking right as she was going to exit. 

And then he paused, just out of reach for a stun. 

Should she run? Now was the time to run, right? While he was waiting for her to make a mistake? If she threw down the pallet she’d still force him to break it to— or no, he could vault it, couldn’t he. 

Her indecisive thoughts pinged through her head at high speed, but they were quickly interrupted. 

“Sammy.” 

Her wary gaze narrowed, lips twitching into a scowl. Not his place to call her that, not again. But she didn’t say anything. 

“What happened to that dirty mouth of yours, puppy? Or are you more bite than bark today?”

Something had changed since the last time they’d met. He wasn’t moving, but the heartbeat was still distractingly loud, the stain still visible. Somehow he’d adjusted the parameters of the trial. Probably had something to do with those blocked off gens, as well. 

A low whistle issued from under the mask. “So quiet.” 

His voice was smooth and confident. Charismatic. Magnetic. She hated that. Hated that his attitude immediately made her doubt her own. 

“This is where you disappeared to on me?” 

Her eyes flicked to the movement of his knife as he spun it in his grasp again, but her mind was turning his words over in her head, calculating.

She’d disappeared. 

She could do that again. She'd done it twice with the hatchets.

It had bought her so much time the first go round today, and if there weren’t any other survivors _here_ , getting moved farther away would probably put her closer to allies who could heal her up. Someone had come to find her fast as soon as she was downed last trial. She’d be able to crawl somewhere to hide and wait for help, and he wouldn’t know where she was. 

And maybe… maybe just a tiny part of her (…or a _not_ so tiny part of her) just wanted to fuck with him. 

Sam’s hands hesitated on the pallet as she straightened a little, lifting her chin. He wanted her to run. He wanted her to run, so he could chase. He wanted her to fight. 

She stepped back. “Do it.” Her heart was so fucking loud, Christ. But there was a certain kind of thrill, too, staring down a killer. That power that only came from tempting death. “Just try, see what happens.” It’d be a shame she’d miss his reaction. She’d be long gone.

His head cocked to the side slightly, and it was a little disconcerting with the wide empty eyes of the mask. There was a beat of pause. “…So, to get this straight: you _want_ me to stab you?”

“I _dare_ you.” _Exhilarating._ Just like he’d said. The balancing point between nervous and confident. A flash of that wild rush made her toes curl. 

He took a step forward. Then another. Within range of the pallet. She should step forward and stun him, get a head start. But part of her was curious. 

The killer shrugged. “I mean, okay.” 

Sam steeled herself for the blow, the smallest of spiteful smiles just starting to turn her lips, as he came at her. He jammed the knife into her side, and Sam jerked with the pain and—

What? Her face went blank with shock, falling back onto the floor of the shack.

“If that’s what you’re into, who am I to judge.”

Why hadn’t that worked? That was supposed to have worked. 

Having cleaned his blade, Legion stooped down, hauling her up over his shoulder as Sam’s brow furrowed, still out of it. _…What the fuck._ She winced and stifled a whimper at the movement as he started down the stairs. What the _fuck._ What the absolute _fuck_. No fair. This wasn’t fair. The world was inconsistent, that wasn’t _fair_ and it was so fucking _frustrating_ —

There was a red glow to the basement, and she could sense it without seeing. Things were different down here. She could feel those claws waiting just out of sight, and suddenly she remembered the next step to this process. 

“Wait.” Her heartbeat was speeding, but it wasn’t just the killer. 

She wasn’t ready. She couldn’t go through that again. The mori was a mercy killing in comparison. She’d so much rather die by his hand than let that thing scrape out all of her insides again. 

“Don’t—” Her skin sparked with nervous frantic energy and she struggled against his hold, hating how the fear was already spreading through her system. “-Not the hook, don’t—”

Too late. Sam tried to cut short her scream, clenching her jaw and panting and trying not to struggle. Struggling made it worse, struggling made it faster, struggling meant she’d be one step closer to that place again. 

Panicked tears were welling in her eyes and she tried to blink them away. Stupid. She was— weak. Shouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Not fear. Anger. Be angry. Be smart. Be strategic. Stop being so _scared_. 

The killer turned to head back up the stairs, and another jolt of fear shot through her. “Wait! Wait, take—” He wasn’t listening. She had to make him listen. “ _Frank,_ wait.”

That got his attention. 

He turned. Came back down the stairs. 

Sam wanted to be relieved, but she knew she wasn’t in the clear yet. It was a start. She just had to play him right. If she could be smart about this… It wasn’t like she hadn’t manipulated people into doing things before. Picking the right strings to pull, the right deals to make. Say the right things to the right people, don’t say the wrong things to the wrong people. 

“Where’d you hear that, puppy?” 

She pushed down the panic, pushed back the searing pain that was spreading through her chest. She didn’t answer the question, just watched him. But that fucking dead-eyed drawn-on smile. She couldn’t read him with that on. “Take off your mask.”

She wasn’t exactly in a place to make demands. His soft laugh pointed to that as well. 

“Please.” The word left a sour taste in her mouth. Being polite to a killer. _Focus. You can get pissed later. Get free now._

For all she’d hoped it would work, she was still surprised when it did. 

Shit, she’d forgotten that that charisma carried through beyond the mask. Was stronger without it, even. That cocky smirk. “Sammy, I had no idea we were so close.”

 _Don’t call me Sammy,_ _'Frankie.' You bastard._

“Please take me off the hook.” More please. She didn’t like please, not to him. 

There was a sound in the distance and Sam watched his head jerk toward something. She saw it too, the aura up on ground level. Someone blowing a gen. His eyes turned back to her. 

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll think about it.” He was already walking backwards toward the stairs, pulling the mask over his head again. “I’ll be back. If you’re still alive, we’ll talk about making a deal. Try not to kill yourself.”

Some dark part of her wanted to laugh at that. He had no fucking idea. 

There was a noise in the distance, and that little thought bulletin. **_Two._ ** She must have missed the first generator. Must have been while she was _getting fucking stabbed._

She could feel time ticking away. Heat was growing, but it wasn’t visible yet, those spindly legs were still just a threat looming out of sight.

Sam’s heart leapt as she saw a silhouette above, hurrying in her direction. Good. Good good, no more pleases needed, she was going to be saved. 

Adam. He immediately lifted her off of the hook and started to heal her. Her first injury of the trial had healed already, by whatever weirdness powered the hooks, and the hook wound was closing on itself as they did, but he got to work on the gash in her side. 

She gave a hushed thank you. The process was going quickly, but Sam had that lingering threat in the back of her mind. “He’s coming back.” 

“One more—” 

There was the heartbeat, just coming into range. Sam’s eyes flicked nervously to the stairs. She didn’t want to be the reason someone else got killed as well. “Just go.”

She felt mostly better. She’d be… okay. Enough. 

He left at a run, and Sam gave a cursory glance around before ducking into a locker on the back wall as quietly as she could manage. There was no way she should beat him in a chase in her condition. Better to hide and wait it out, let him realize she was missing and leave. 

There was a shout from up the stairs. 

She closed her eyes, letting out a silent guilty breath as the heartbeat got louder. Adam had gotten injured because of her. Because he'd come to help her. But it was his first hit, he could run and go heal up. She peered through the slats of the locker, watching the killer as he stepped off the stairs. He pulled off the mask again, tucking it into the back of his waistband and running a hand through his hair. “Come on out, puppy. We had a deal to make.”

He had to be kidding. She was off the hook, she wasn’t about to get back on. 

Frank scuffed a foot against the floor, whistling something softly as he surveyed the room. Starting with the little hiding place behind the wall, knocking his boot against the trunk there. Why did that tune sound familiar? He started to check the lockers. 

“I promise not to put you on the hook this time. That sound fair?” 

That didn’t sound particularly believable, so… no. 

“But if you keep wasting my time…”

He was almost to her anyway. 

Sam spilled out of the locker. “Don’t—”

She was down in one hit, groaning at the slash across her arm. 

“…You motherfucker,” she grit her teeth, holding onto the wound. 

“I will be back. This time, you stay.”

True to his word, he didn’t leave her on the hook. Just bleeding out on the floor, as he went back upstairs. 

Sam closed her eyes. Focused on recovering. Tried to will the pain away. She was getting better at dealing with it. It still hurt like a bitch, but knowing it was temporary - _very_ temporary - made it a little easier to compartmentalize. 

There was a scream and she felt the prickle of an aura and opened her eyes to spot a silhouette getting hooked. Fuck. Maybe Adam _hadn’t_ gotten away. 

There wasn’t much Sam could do besides wait, so wait she did. Wait and wait and try to ignore the pain. Try to ignore the sinking feeling when there was another scream and no third bulletin had come yet.

She was losing blood too quickly. She thought she’d have more time than this. Her vision was starting to swim. It didn’t hurt as much, though. 

**_Three._**

Nice.

Her breathing was getting easier. This was a much better way to go than the hook. This was good. Bleeding out was surprisingly pleasant. 

…That felt wrong. 

There was another distant scream and prickle at her neck, but it was weak and distant. Fading away.

**_Rebirth._ **

She couldn’t open her eyes, but her head lolled sideways, frowning slightly. _That_ felt wrong, too. That thought wasn’t a number. It wasn’t an ‘exit’ or a ‘hatch.’ Her time was almost up and she was glad to be going without a claw through her chest. 

Sleep. Sleep was good. But it was too hot. 

Wait, shit, that burned. 

Sam’s eyes flew open in a panic, feeling paralyzed. Her whole body was burning, scorching hot. What had happened to drifting off to oblivion? Every inch of her skin blazed. It was pain, but not like a knife or a hatchet or even that soul-scouring scraping of the void. It was like her skin was peeling off. Or like she’d been dipped in acid or something, she didn’t have anything to compare it to. 

Her ability to move came back and she immediately sat up, pulling off her jacket and wincing at the brush of denim on skin that felt rubbed raw. 

But… that was all she felt. 

_You’re fucking kidding me._

That couldn’t be right. Not here, too. 

The burn on her skin faded, dulling to a soft tingling sensation. She pressed tentative fingers to her injuries. …Or she would have, if they’d still been there. 

Oh. _OH._

_‘Rebirth.’_

That was… different. 

She felt a low shockwave pass through the trial grounds. Someone had been sacrificed. Not her, though! So… bright side? 

Okay. Okay, if she was healed, she couldn’t waste time wondering how or why. She pulled herself to her feet, eyes lingering on the blood-free jacket she’d thrown down. 

_Accept it as part of the Cumulative Weirdness. Get up, get out, don’t be here when_ —

The heartbeat. Shit. Sam climbed into the locker at the base of the stairs this time around. He’d check the corner again, she’d run past him. She was more than capable of that now. 

She had the doors closed just in time as she heard boots on the floor above and Legion crested the stairs. “Sorry I’m late, hope you’re not—” He stopped at the base of the stairs without moving into the basement proper, just a couple feet from her hiding place. “…dead…”

His head cocked again, and she wished he’d taken off his mask so she could read him. The knife was spun in his hand agitatedly, humming that tune again as he looked down at his hand, ticking something off on his fingers. 1. 2. 3. 4.

Arms crossed over his chest, and she thought he might be annoyed. 

Then, without warning, he went for the locker. 

_Fuck_ —

She stiffened, pulling back from the slats she’d been looking through, but the doors were already open and then she was grabbed by the front of the shirt and tugged out, slung over his shoulder. Fuck. No, not this. He’d said he wouldn’t— “You said you—” She sobbed involuntarily as the hook pierced through her back. “You—” She couldn’t breathe. She needed a second. There was a goddamn meat hook through her; she needed a second before she could talk again. 

“Yes, but that was when you were a broken little puppy.” He didn’t back off quite so far this time. “Bets are off if you go healing on me.”

Breathe. Don’t struggle. “Pl-” _Breathe._ “Please take me off the hook.” It didn’t come out as calm as before, spoken in a tight breath. Push the pain back, push that growing tide of fear back down. What had she tried before? Right, anger. Smart, strategic— the heat was growing around her again. Those phantom limbs just out of sight. _Be smart. Be smart. Breathe and think clearly and pick the right words._

“How’d you do that?” He was cocked back, watching her, spinning that knife again as he took off the mask once more. That had to mean something, right? That he was taking it off? Like… she’d gotten him to do one thing. There was— psychology there. He’d agreed to something small, now she just had to get him to agree to something bigger. 

Did the hook hurt more when she wasn’t injured first? Or was she just too tender, still? Nope, not something she needed to think about right now. Read him. 

Sam met his gaze, studied his face. “I’ll tell you, if you let me down.”

Frank cracked a crooked smirk. “Sorry pup, I’d rather take my chances. I can guess. All you runners have your skills.” 

So this was common knowledge, then. Well, it wasn’t like she knew the answer, anyway. He saved her the trouble of bullshitting something believable. 

Her gaze was level, just the slightest twitch, tiny winces of pain she tried to ignore. (Understandably difficult due to the meat hook business.) But she tried to stay in control, to stay calm and polite and ignore the annoyance that always itched at her when he called her that. “What do you want?”

His smirk widened, and Sam immediately felt wary. “What are you offering?”

…Seriously? 

…Oh.

Was he… he wasn’t serious, was he?

Was… Oh Jesus. How cliche could it get? 

Sam’s jaw tightened. She pursed her lips, let out a breath that sent a brief jolt of pain through her chest, reminding her that this was a time-sensitive issue. But come on.

She knew she had to say it, but _come on._

She avoided his gaze, and couldn’t help rolling her eyes, voice coming out through gritted teeth. “Whatever you want.”

“Oh yeah?” He was making fun of her. Which wasn’t fucking fair. 

Turning sharp eyes on him, she tried to calm herself with a breath, but _seriously?_ “Really?” The cliche was just… Almost as painful as the hook. “Isn’t this trope a little played out?” There was a bite to her tone again. Politeness was hard to manage at the moment. Her tongue was running away with her. 

The killer raised his eyebrows, looking delighted. “Oh, should I-” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Should I just… leave you two alone? I can just—” He turned his back on her and Sam heard her teeth creak with how hard she clenched her jaw in response. 

“Don’t leave. I’ll…” She let out a long breath, and her tone came out bitter. “I’ll do anything.”

She suspected he was holding back a snicker. “Well, you don’t have to sound so happy about it.” How the fuck was he so goddamn cheery. She could see pincers forming around her. Her time was running out and he was just grinning. 

Surprisingly, he didn’t state his terms. Just took those last steps toward her and shoved his knife away, then propped his hands under her arms to lift her off the hook as Sam flinched and tried to keep her pain noises to a minimum. 

He didn’t back off once he had her back on the ground, still invading her space, and Sam was too aware of the cliche offer she’d grudgingly voiced. If he actually wanted follow through like _that_ he had to be kidding himself. Did he really expect some kind of… _favors_ from her? 

_Knife._

The thought only flickered through her mind briefly, but she caught it. That… that was an idea. A very intriguing idea. And if she needed to… use some kind of… _oh Christ,_ some kind of _feminine wiles_ to get close enough… 

Sam’s brain short circuited for a second, eyes widening as his hand lifted to her throat. If he wanted to snap her neck, she’d still take it over the hook, gladly, but— 

_Hand._

Touching. Skin-to-skin contact. 

It raised goosebumps on her arms and brought a flush to her cheeks as Sam forced herself not to jerk away. That’s how you get stabbed. (Which really, again; preferable to the hook, but in this case would probably just be a precursor.)

After another moment of hesitation, she realized he wasn’t choking her. Which made her wary. But it was hard to remain focused on the weirdness of that when the heartbeat was so goddamn loud, and she could feel her pulse fluttering under the pad of his index finger, and every panicked contact warning was fritzing out at once. 

A rough thumb slid over her throat. “…Not so nice.” His smirk had gone grim. 

Right. The scar. Without her necklaces, it was visible. Surprised he could see it in the dim red light, though. 

His thumb brushed back and forth over it again, his gaze fixed on her neck. 

Oh shit. This was her chance. Nervous energy was already coursing through her, she just had to act on it. Her breath was heavy. 

_Do it._

That thumb again. 

_Just do it._

He was too close, far too close, and just close enough. 

_Stop thinking and_ —

It did not have the desired effect. 

Frank burst out laughing, a hand grabbing her wrist and tightening painfully until she dropped the knife. “Did you seriously just— did you try to _stab_ me, Sammy?”

What the fuck. It had done nothing? And he was cracking up, stepping on the blade of the knife to keep her from reaching for it, and this time the hand around her neck was definitely more on the _choking_ side of things, and she grabbed onto his wrist nervously.

“Oh my god, that’s adorable,” he muttered. “Shame you have to get hooked for it.”

“No!” Not again. No more games. The next time she went up she’d be dead, she knew that, she’d seen the pincers forming. “Wait, not hook— kill me.” 

His hand tightened on her throat, then loosened again, head cocking curiously as he read her face. “First stabbing and now full-on murder? You have to stop tempting me like this, puppy.” His eyes dropped back to her neck. Another slow squeeze, another release. 

She felt lightheaded. She wasn’t sure exactly what the cause was. Probably the choking, but her face was still burning pink. 

Sam dug her nails into his wrist before easing up. She could do it, too, this pointed catch and release kind of play. She could be trying to hurt him, but she wasn’t. She wasn’t fighting. He should know she wasn’t fighting. Anything but the hook. “Mori me.”

He finally looked up from where he’d been watching his hand on her throat, meeting her eyes. His gaze was a little too intense, but given that she was _asking_ him to kill her, that was probably the appropriate level of intensity for the activity at hand. At _hand-around-neck._

She could sense the question from him, the hilarity faded to a sort of bemusement. _You’re serious?_

Sam squeezed his wrist in confirmation. It wasn’t the first time she’d asked for death. Not even the first time requesting it of a killer. So why the hell did it feel so fucking intimate?

“Beg.”

A shiver ran through her. Something about his voice… the way he was watching her… Something had changed in the room. “…Please.” It was closer to a whisper. 

Another squeeze, another release. _More._ Beg more.

Distantly, Sam was aware that this was very strange. Beyond strange. Absurd. Perverse. 

He wasn’t teasing her anymore. The smile was gone, but there was still that sharpness to him. The knife may have been on the ground, but he clearly didn’t need it. 

“Please kill me.” His hand wasn’t tight enough to make her breathless, but she still was, words hushed. 

A longer squeeze this time, enough to make her eyes roll, lids fluttering briefly before he let up. 

“…Frank. Please.”

His breath was heavy. His hands—

A short frantic whimper squeaked out of her at his sudden movement, releasing her wrist to fall helplessly to her side and jerking her forward by her neck. He met her halfway, Sam bumping into his chest, another overwhelming closeness that shorted out her mental switchboard. His freed hand tugged at her hair to tilt her head forward, pushing it into his shoulder as the grip around her neck tightened again. 

Her pulse beat against his fingertips, a new level of lightheadedness. Spots filled her vision, and what wasn’t spots was _him_ , and why had she asked for this, and why was he doing it, and _why why why_. She could breathe, shallowly, but she couldn’t see. The blood was… not moving… right…

Pain bloomed like a migraine in her head. Her hand fell from its grip on his wrist. He was so close, she could feel his breath. 

She felt his head move and then his voice was in her ear, so close, lips touching skin. “Go to sleep, Sammy.” 

She was slipping. Drifting. Her head throbbed.

_Go to._

_Go._

One small brief hint of noise, half a breath as it left her, and she collapsed against him.

* * *

Sam’s head was pounding, out of time to the rest of the movement of her body, as she came to. He was humming again. She was slung over his shoulder like he was bringing her to a hook, but she was still too groggy to fully grasp that. He wasn’t going to do it, he wasn't going to _hook_ her. He was going to _kill_ her. He’d said… or… she’d asked, and…

A sort of whine trembled in her throat as Frank rolled her off of his shoulder and onto the ground. 

Her vision was dizzy for a moment, looking up at him. 

He jerked his head in a short gesture, mask back on, arms crossed over his chest. ****

She must’ve missed it. Missed everyone else leaving or dying. But she heard it now, that too-open air, echoing. Her head rolled sideways to look at the ground beside her.

“Go on, pup. Don’t have a mori on me.” 

The hatch. He’d brought her to the hatch. It didn’t exactly zap her into wakefulness, but it helped clarify her mind a bit. She turned a confused look on Frank. He was rubbing a finger along the detailing of his knife. 

“…If you don’t jump, I close it. Then you either run for an exit or let the Entity get you. Ten… nine… eight…”

Oh. Shit. “I’m-” Sam interrupted the countdown, pulling herself up as her head spun. But she didn’t exactly know what to say. What, thank you? That felt too weird. What had even… How had that even happened? 

She just shook her head, dumbly, and slipped through the hatch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3c
> 
> I know I'm posting this early. But I wrote a big chonky chapter today earlier than I usually do, and got to work with another one. I have some ideas I want to bring to fruition (many of them happened in this chapter and many will happen in the one I'm working on now). 
> 
> Please, please GOD give me your reactions.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after the fifth trial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more on how mechanics work in narrative. And the beginning of a minor obsession. :3

She’d left her coat. 

Sam didn’t realize it right away. She was back in the field, then back at the Fire, still a little dazed. 

It was only when she lifted a thumb to chew at her nail that she realized her jacket was missing. Still on the floor of the basement. How was that possible? She’d thought they reverted back to however they’d been going in. And now she had to find a way to hide her scars. 

She bypassed the Campfire, sticking to shadow as she went back to her bunk, pulling down her hair and slipping the necklaces back on to cover her throat again, turning her shirt the right way round.

What the _hell_ had just happened? Even out of the trial, her heart was still a frantically pounding mess. His hand on her neck, thumb brushing over the pale line across her throat, his lips on her ear… 

He’d been so close. She didn’t do close. And he’d been _touching_ her, utterly enveloping her with the fear that was becoming routine. It was bad enough to be overwhelmed by everyday closeness with people she was casually acquainted with, on good terms with— even _friends._ He’d been closer than that. 

Overwhelmed couldn’t even begin to describe it. Sensory overload. The scent of blood on his jacket, on his hands. The way his voice had dropped low, the sound of heavy breathing. 

Shaking hands or touching arms, that kind of contact was unwelcome but not unexpected in her daily life - it could still make her jump, she just got over it quickly, could tune it out with preparation - but her _neck?_ It had been all she could focus on, the constant droning alarm in her head, warning her. 

Just thinking about it made her twitch, and a shiver ran down her spine. 

That had been stupid. Like many of her life choices (and honestly, her _death_ choices, too), it had been stupid. Asking for him to kill her. _Begging_ him. Sure, she’d… won? In a way? He hadn’t hooked her, she hadn’t been sacrificed, so she’d achieved her goal. But there had been something else happening in that interaction. Not feeding the Entity, maybe, but playing into Legion’s fucked up power fantasy. He’d been _hungry_ for it. And she'd indulged him.

Was it a mistake? But she’d gotten what she wanted, in the end. Did the ends justify the means in this case? On the one hand, this established some kind of rapport between them. She’d rather die than be hooked, and he knew that, and was willing - or at least _had_ been willing - to indulge her. On the other hand, it wasn’t right. She knew it, she felt it, that what had happened was twisted and wrong— more ‘wrong’ than some of the standard fucked-uped-ness of this universe. Trials were about survivors trying to survive and killers trying to kill. Not survivors begging to die and killers showing mercy. That shift of dynamic came with heavy implications, and she wasn’t sure what they were quite yet. 

She owed him something. 

He’d take that payment eventually. 

Fucking Christ, if he _said_ anything about it… Sam swallowed hard, feeling a mortified flush spreading over her skin. God, and he was the type, wasn’t he. It was only a matter of time before he ran his mouth about her death wish. About the cringeworthy _I’ll do anything_ that she’d been trying so hard to forget. 

Had letting him choke her out counted as repaying that debt? Did she still owe him that, on top of the hatch? 

It wasn’t like he could hold it over her. She wasn’t beholden to her word here. What was the worst that could happen? He was already trying to kill her. 

_The hook. The hook is the worst that could happen._

He was a sadist, though. More keen on playing and toying with her than actually cutting that short. At least, that’s how she read it. He’d hung around. Adam and Quentin had been sacrificed, Nea had apparently unlocked the hatch earlier and escaped through that… Sam had been the last one standing, and _then_ he’d played. Well, he’d played after he’d left her for dead. 

Which, by the way— what the _fuck_ had that been, she hadn’t even thought about _that_ part of things, Christ. She’d bled out, and come back. Her old body had burned away for a fresh start. No matter how much she wanted to die, she couldn’t. Not without a killer doing it for her. 

Shit was all kinds of fucked up. Sure wish she had some kind of rulebook, here. 

Her ears pricked up at the noise of someone approaching, and she grabbed up her blanket to wrap around her as she turned. No jacket to cover the scars, and no blood like the first night. She’d have to get something… maybe borrow something, or get bandages from the storeroom… though what excuse could make up for that…

It was Zarina, so no surprise there. “You made it out.”

“Yeah.” Sam shifted foot to foot. “Found the hatch.” There was no possible way she’d admit what had actually happened. 

“Good! Good for you. Sorry to hear you guys couldn’t do the gens, but I’m glad you made it out okay.” 

Sam nodded. She kind of wanted to leave. She still had things to think about. But— “I don’t suppose you know where I could find another jacket, do you?”

Her bunkmate looked bemused. “We don’t really need them here. It’s mostly aesthetic. What happened to yours?” 

“Left it in the trial.”

She frowned. “I didn’t realize that was possible.” Yeah, neither had Sam. “It might show up again. You made it out; sometimes that earns a reward. And you had it before, so I imagine it will reappear, either here or in the clearing.” 

Sam hesitated. Finally, she dropped any attempt at genial ignorance. “…This place is fucking weird, right?” She felt like she was breaking a taboo, mentioning it. Everyone else seemed to have accepted it by now, but she was still constantly floored by the _other-_ ness. 

There was a twitch to Zarina’s mouth, a smile as her posture relaxed slightly. “Ridiculously. You get used to it, but… yes. Never thought I’d find myself casually accepting things appearing and disappearing at will. Since that doesn’t make sense, I’ve focused my investigations on things we can actually learn.”

“The killers,” Sam nodded. Zarina had been pretty keen on their discussion the night before. She may not have the paper files to back it up, but it was obvious she’d been making an attempt to commit all she could to memory until she got a chance to document it. 

“Some of the items that show up in the clearing point toward different trial grounds. Sometimes to the killers themselves, or their abilities.” Again, there was that hint of underlying drive to her voice when she talked about her project. 

Sam wrapped the blanket a little tighter as she leaned up against the wall of the lean-to. “What’s the deal with that, anyway? The abilities thing. This was my second trial against Legion and there were things I’ve never seen before.” The generators blocked off. The way he’d lost the heartbeat so often in the first trial but not this time. 

“When we come here— and I mean, _us_ as a whole. Survivors _and_ killers.” That must be an unusual viewpoint, lumping both groups together. “We get certain abilities. Like you, with your climbing. The Entity turns things up to eleven with certain traits, and they come out like…” Zarina cocked her head. “I suppose it’s a bit like a deck of cards? Or perhaps like a disc drive. We have these options available to us, but only have room for so much. A hand limit, if you will. Or a CD changer with only a few slots.”

… “That doesn’t make sense.”

“No, it really doesn’t. You’d think that once you knew something, you’d know it forever, but this isn’t simple knowledge. Knowing and being capable of using aren’t the same thing. It takes practice and focused thought to learn, and in the trials you can usually feel what’s available to you. It’s your choice on what abilities you want to use, but it can be hard to get a handle on picking them”

“Yeah, it’s not exactly intuitive,” Sam deadpanned. How exactly would one choose to suddenly have a certain talent? She couldn’t just turn off her knowledge of how to climb, and then turn it back on later. Brains didn’t work that way, and neither did bodies. 

Zarina nodded. “I know. It’s hard to explain. It might help if you spend the last hour or two of the day practicing the skills you think will be most useful. A lot of the other survivors have a trick to it. I know Jane talks about affirmations and manifesting her goals. I think Adam meditates. Meg mutters to herself, I’m pretty sure she just repeats the words over and over, like that’s how she sets it.” 

So fuckin’ bizarre… “What about you?”

The woman’s eyes skirted away, almost sheepish. Was that too personal a question? It seemed like Zarina knew others’ tactics, why be embarrassed over her own? “I think of them, like… Like video tracks? Monitors? Four input channels, I have to pick something to show on each, and I have a little library of footage to pick from. I get those clips rolling in my head, and…” She shrugged. “I mean, it might sound stupid, but whatever works, right?”

Four. Four augmented skills they could bring into a trial. 

“Still weird,” Sam murmured. 

“Still _super_ weird, yes.”

After a moment’s pause, Sam added, “What about the killers?”

“We can only assume it’s the same. Based on observation, I’ve seen abilities change between trials, and I’ve seen multiple killers using the same skills, just like we do. They aren’t our abilities, but they can teach each other the way we do, I think.”

The thought of the chainsaw-wielding Hillbilly taking axe-throwing lessons from the Huntress was surreal, but kind of entertaining. 

“We have nicknames for some things that show up, others are harder to place. And on their own the killers have their particular styles as well.” This really was her new expertise, wasn’t it? The woman knew how to observe. “Like— you said you were up against Legion?”

Sam nodded. 

“So, all of the Legion killers have this thing they can do, this sort of… I guess _frenzy_ is the way to describe it. Super fast, leave lasting wounds that need immediate attention, and seem to zero in on uninjured survivors. It only lasts so long, but that’s what we have to look out for. Hitting them with a pallet takes them out of it, but if they’re close enough for that, you might not have time. If they miss, too, they’ll get pissed and snap out of it, which gives you some time to run. But again, if you’re close enough that they struck at all, you’re probably in trouble.” 

“All of them? Aren’t there four? They all have the same reactions to things?”

Zarina bit her lip. “Based on observation?" Always giving that qualification. "Yes. But I suspect it may not necessarily be of their own volition. As I said, the Entity enhances things. There may be a way of reprogramming killers to tend toward certain behaviors. Not to say I think there’s redemption to be had - I think there must be _something_ there that it can enhance, a natural inclination toward killing - but it may not have started as intense as it has grown to be. Maybe through conditioning, or maybe the same way that we have some involuntary reactions, like screaming on the hook. It has power over all of us, even if it favors the killers most of all.” 

Did it? 

Well, okay, yeah, obviously it did during trials, when it wanted to nom nom that delish terror, but things at camp were different. Kate had her guitar. They had food and water and safety. Things appeared in the clearing to help them with their trials and their daily life. Considering that was, what, 8 or 9 hours of their 12 hour day? 70% of their time was spent out of trials. They were in a place for recovery, a place to replenish before getting gutted again. Limbo, instead of hell. Things were… okay, for those hours. 

This was a lot to take in. And there was still a chance Sam would have another trial tonight. 

Sam let out a long breath. 

“Have you figured out what your abilities are, yet? Aside from climbing thing.”

“…I think you can do that, too, actually.”

“I assume you’ll have to teach—”

“No, I mean. I do have a thing. I know I have a thing to do with climbing, the—” she faltered, feeling a little stupid as she said, “The voice thing. The thought thing, it named it. But the killers can climb, too. So you guys _can._ I don’t know if there was something stopping you before, if you just learned not to try, but— it can be _loud,_ yeah, but it’s doable.”

“Huh.” 

It really hadn’t occurred to the survivors to keep trying? 

Then again, who was she to judge. Sam was the number one survivor when it came to giving up. She gave up spectacularly.

“The— the skill thing… My thing, it has to do with falling, not getting up.” Ah. Yes. Maybe it _was_ fitting. She’d crashed a lot in her life, had a lot of downswings. (And so rarely asked for help. …Maybe the silence thing was a bit on the nose.) (…Okay, now she just felt insulted.)

Zarina nodded. “I’ll tell the others about the climbing. If it’s something we need to practice, we should probably do it here before taking it into trials.” Fair. Didn’t want to fuck it up trying for the first time. “Do you think you can teach your skill?”

“Um.” No? How the hell would you teach something like that? “I… don’t think so. It just… happens. It’s, um.” Sam felt like an idiot, with what she was about to say. “The, uh. It’s. Um. Feather Fall.” 

How the hell did Zarina take that in stride? Sam had a fucking _title_ for a _skill_ that entirely consisted of _falling._ She had a title for a skill at all! That wasn’t just the term _falling!_ It was like… official. From the Entity itself. The thing that put those thoughts in her head. 

“That sounds useful.” 

Okay, well, she hadn’t explained it at all, but _whatever._ The name was promising, apparently. 

“I have—”

“Please just validate me with the weirdness, here. I know I keep pointing it out, but…”

“Super weird,” Zarina agreed quickly. “No argument here, it is very _very_ insane to have skills with names attached that let you have magical powers, yes. Very valid. This does not make sense anywhere but here.” 

“Thank you.” So fucking weird. And Christ, just thinking _magical powers_ made her roll her eyes. This was just… Dungeons and Dragons, except death. Death and Dragons. Dungeons and Death. Dungeons and Dragons and Death. 

_The triple D you never wanted ever._

Jesus. 

“If you want to talk about—”

“Actually,” Sam cut her off, then immediately felt awkward for it. “Um. Actually, I thought I might… take a walk.” There were thoughts to be had. 

Zarina hesitated. “…Not to be… I don’t want to…”

“What?”

“It’s just… Do you think that’s such a good idea?” 

_…Excuse me?_

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Sam’s gaze was hard. 

Without moving, Zarina took a step back in the conversation. She was avoiding mentioning something, or skirting around the issue. Censoring herself. Sam had done it thousands of times, she knew what it looked like. “Being alone can exacerbate catastrophic thinking, for some people.”

“You’re not my therapist.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

 _You sure? Sounds like it to me._ Sam kept staring, verging on a glare. 

Finally, Zarina backed down. “Sorry. I— Sorry. I just meant— …If you want company, I—”

“I’m good. Thanks.” Her tone was clipped. 

So what if Zarina was… kinda right. She’d soured it. They weren’t that close. Just cause she’d been there after the sacrifice, just cause she’d been the right kind of comforting, Sam wasn’t about to confide in her. They may be friendly, but they weren’t _friends._

Sam hadn’t really had _friends_ since her breakdown. She had family, she had coworkers, she had friendly _acquaintances,_ and she had _past_ friends that she was too ashamed to talk to after dropping out. She had a few social activities her parents had convinced her to do, she had some hookups that were almost always one-time things, but she didn’t have friends. Even the people who might have considered her to be one… it wasn’t the same. She had too many secrets, too much she had to hide. 

Without another word, she pushed off of the wall and left the lean-to, still wrapped in her blanket, flashlight in hand. She’d go to the orchard. Get away from the Campfire and the other survivors. Try to think. And just hope she wouldn’t get whisked away to another trial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the longest chapter, I know, but not too bad. And the one I just finished writing was like… 24 pages on gdocs? I may cut it in half, but it's still incredibly long (also may need to cut parts, we shall see, things got angsty, lemme know if you're here for angst or more lighthearted fare). (Also, to be fair, my muse kinda runs away with me, so I still don't know if it will change, but it stands a better chance if people give their opinions. ><)
> 
> Oh, and for things that have been set in stone since previous chapters: 1) The climbing is like a patch to the game. Everyone can do it, not just Sam. 2) Feather Fall is no noise and no marks after dropping. I think that's the final consensus from me. xD


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Not much in the way of dialogue here, I'm afraid, but a whole lot of thought process and just a touch of horror.*

With most people either preparing for or recovering from trials, and with her bunk toward the edge of camp, it was easy to avoid people as she made her way into the forest. It was odd, she hadn’t noticed in the real world, but now that she was here, the absence of animal sounds was glaringly evident. Just another thing that was not quite right. 

Reaching the turn for the orchard, Sam paused. 

A chill prickled over her skin and she stiffened. 

Whispers. 

They emanated from further down past the turn she was taking. The clearing at night. …It wasn’t their place. Not survivor ground.

Something told her the whispers went beyond the physical. A foot farther back and they wouldn’t be audible. No, this wasn’t sound. It was like an aura— not the kind of aura that colored her vision in trials, but something else. An atmosphere. A mood. The _vibes._

That concept, at least, was enough to snap her out of her trance. _Vibes?_ Really.

_Toxic vibes, in need of vibe check, hit the clearing with a good one._

She snorted softly to herself, shaking her head as she took the turn and headed for the orchard. The whispers faded. All in her head. The Entity had its own little spot there now, its little festering darkness. …At least it would be in good company. 

Sam walked through the orchard for a minute, breathing in deep. She was kind of amazed people weren’t here all the time: it was easily the most heartening place in camp, to her. Smelled like fruit and dirt. And even better: it had trees. 

Shining her flashlight along the trunks, Sam found one that looked easily climbable, with a nice foothold partway up and a good fork to prop herself up in. She hadn’t actually climbed trees in years, not since she was maybe thirteen or fourteen. More used to urban areas. And maybe a little less keen on bugs, once she’d passed twelve or so. But no bugs here. No life here at all, apart from the survivors and the crows. 

With her blanket over one shoulder and flashlight held between her teeth, Sam got as far up as she could manage (which wasn’t as high as she would’ve liked; the tree wasn’t that big) and settled herself in the branches. Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders again, the flashlight lit on the fruit in amongst the leaves around her. Cherries. Nice. Midnight snack. 

After a second of dilemma on the best way to deal with the flashlight, she ended up flicking it off and tucking it into her waistband again so she could grab a bunch of cherries. _Food for thought._

So, the climbing. Start with the climbing. 

Sam nibbled around the pits, one at a time, eyes adjusting to the darkness. 

The other survivors hadn’t been able to climb since they got here. But they could vault. 

Sam could climb, and the killers could, too, though that was new, so the survivors _should_ be able to, too, now. They’d just been so focused on efficiency that they hadn’t even attempted after not being able to for so long. As to _how_ they hadn’t been able to climb, when it was just a physical movement limited by flexibility, gravity, friction— limited by _physics,_ Sam couldn’t guess. Probably Entity fuckery. 

So that was climbing. Check. (Some part of her wondered if there were lower limits, too. Was crawling under things possible? What about digging? What other physical impediments did the Entity impose on them?)

Along with the climbing, she had her weird ability. _Feather Fall._ She’d need to explore that more, figure out the limits. How high was too high? How low wouldn’t work? She hit the ground quietly, but for how long? Maybe she could test this kind of thing. Maybe climbing the structures in camp. 

Sam spat another pit and licked at her fingers before starting in on another cherry. 

Feather Fall. Check. What about this other thing?

_Rebirth._ That’s what the thoughts had called it— the Entity, it had to be the Entity putting those thoughts in her head, nothing else made sense (then again… did anything here ever make sense?). It set the boundaries, it gave the abilities, and it ran every trial at once. 

She’d been dying. She’d been bleeding out, she’d felt herself running out of time, fading away, and then… Like her body had burned away, leaving her fresh as a goddamn newborn. Burns. Sunburns, maybe, maybe that was the thing to compare it to, how her skin felt after… being… reborn? 

_God, if only the family knew you were Born Again, they’d freak._

She let out a soft huff of laughter. She’d have to get used to these impossibilities eventually. For now everything came with a healthy dose of skepticism and wry humor. 

Okay, think. Limits. What made the ability trigger? Dying. Obviously. Or, no, cause Frank had—

_Legion. Better to_ — _Just, use Legion._

Maybe that was better. Too familiar otherwise. His name was a tool, that was all. Wasn’t that one of those things? A _How to Make Friends and Influence People_ thing? They loved the sound of their own name. And undoubtedly to a sociopath like him… Probably a nice little boost to his already inflated ego. 

So— okay, so not just dying. Bleeding out. She had to be dying slow, not on a hook, and not getting straight up _murdered_ by a deranged killer. How long did it take? How much blood was enough payment for the Entity to patch her up again? …Sam had a feeling that would be a tough one to test in camp. If hanging herself was frowned on, a slow and steady bloodletting was probably just a _bit_ of a faux pas. Which meant…

She let out a long breath. 

Which meant dying in a trial. Again. Maybe she could convince another killer to let her off a hook. A bit of a stretch, but… 

Her lips turned in a cynical smirk: _…You could always hope?_

Her shoulders shook in a suppressed laugh. Right. _Hope._ If she had even a fleeting thought that it was always there, she must not have learned much from the sacrifice. (Still, there was some of it now, despite her denial.)

So, Rebirth. Check. 

What about that other thing? There wasn’t a name yet for that. Whatever it was that kept glitching her around reality (well, _reality_ — whatever this thing was). When had it happened? When she’d been hit with the hatchets. But it wasn’t just a thing that happened long-range, cause it had happened when Legion had stabbed her. 

_After you_ **_literally_ ** _asked for it._

That had been such a dumbass move on her part.

_Literally. You said ‘I dare you.’ You brought this on yourself, puppy_ —

**FUCK.**

The cherry in her fingers slipped, and the surprise at that thought made her fumble the rest of the fruit as well, all of it tumbling to the ground.

_No._

No no no, he was _not_ getting in her head. She was not about to let a fucking _killer_ influence her. Not like that. She wasn’t a _fucking_ puppy. Maybe he could get her to say things, with a knife to her throat - and that was a _strong_ maybe - but he couldn’t get her to think things. 

_With a hand to your throat, you mean._

Her mouth was dry. She grabbed another bunch of cherries, gnawing at one and rolling the pit between her molars until the noise blocked that thought out. She wasn’t going to forget that, though, was she? Contact. Overwhelming contact, and heat, and breath, and all kinds of _too much_ and _fucked up._

An itch raced up her spine, toes curling. 

_So_ fucked up. Christ. 

She needed to touch people more. So he wasn’t the only one. He didn’t deserve to be the one person who’d gotten within a foot of her without her pushing them away. 

_To be fair, you_ did _push him away. Or tried to run. …At least, the first time. And the second time you tried to stab him, so… ‘A’ for effort._

Yeah, that was weird. She’d been holding the knife. It was solid, it wasn’t like she’d been imagining it. But nothing had pierced skin. Or— well, there hadn’t been blood, and he hadn’t reacted. 

Jake had said they couldn’t bring weapons into the trials. He’d said— What had he said about improvising… Laurie could do it. And he’d said she’d need an explanation… So was that an ability, then? Something she’d brought into this world and had magnified? Who the hell was she in a past life to get _stabbing_ as a superpower? Yikes. 

Either way, Sam knew she’d have to talk to the woman if she wanted to figure out how to do it herself. 

She pulled a face: she’d have to talk to _a lot_ of them. Probably _all_ of them. She’d have to let them close enough to teach her something, and she’d have to be polite enough that they’d _want_ to. More social maneuvering. She’d just have to work up to it. Maybe start with Zarina, since she was so keen on helping. 

Zarina really was a _helper,_ wasn’t she? Or— maybe that wasn’t fair. She’d been right about not isolating herself, Sam knew that, she’d been told it by multiple therapists and counselors and all of that. It had been the language that had rubbed her wrong, not the sentiment. It felt too much like being analyzed under the guise of generalized advice. 

Would it have been better if Zarina had outright said ‘I don’t think you should be alone’? …Sam wasn’t sure. She was generally a proponent for as much honesty as possible. Even if she was _good_ at cheating social interactions, she didn’t _like_ it. Sure, sometimes she felt smart for it, if it got her what she wanted, but there was still _guilt,_ especially when dealing with people she liked. And Zarina seemed like good people. 

But a camp situation, seeing the same people constantly, every hour of every day, with nowhere to go to get away besides literal death traps… 

Maybe she’d have to be honest eventually. Maybe it would all come out. But for now, she’d manage expectations, curate impressions. Or do what she could to correct whatever impressions people had of her from her manic suicidal tantrum. 

Sam closed her eyes. Yeah. That was… That might take some work.

_Alternatively: a whole lot of avoidance._

Well, all she had was time. 

With a soft sigh, and a moment of hesitation, Sam angled herself away from the trunk and let herself fall to the ground. 

Yep, still worked. It wasn’t a long drop this time, either, but she came down soft. 

She readjusted the blanket around her, reaching for the flashlight again before stopping. She was seeing just fine. It was dark, yes, but her eyes had adjusted to _something._ Sam looked up, moving out from under the trees just in case, but it didn’t make a difference. No moon. 

There was light, though, from somewhere. Something radiating from— the Campfire. Somehow it was giving the slightest ambient light, something like a sliver of moonlight or the darkest dusk. Coming in from the direction of camp. 

Examining the sky, she corrected herself. That was one source of light. There was another— at _least_ one more. Behind her, back toward… the clearing. 

Sam’s thumb rubbed nervously at the switch on the flashlight, her other hand picking at the stitching of the blanket around her.

Zarina had said her jacket would show up at camp or in the clearing. 

_That is such a bad idea. Do not do that. It is stupid. It is a very bad idea and should not be done._

But, like… light? If there was light coming from it, and there was light coming from the Campfire… Maybe… some kind of correlation?

_You are kidding yourself right now._

Maybe. Definitely could be. Probably was, yes. 

_…One look. You are allowed one peek into the clearing, but if you take one fucking step you will get massively fucked by karma._

Fine. No hooks here. A hallucination or two wouldn’t kill her. She’d dealt with plenty of psychological torment or whatever. 

_You’re a fucking idiot._

Yes. She knew that. But something had lodged itself in the back of her mind last time she was there. Something about the feel of it, or the look of it, or something. The first hint of an idea. 

Sam kept her flashlight off as she headed back for the forest. (The standard forest. She wasn’t about to _cross_ the clearing to hit the oh-so-ominous Deep Forest, she wasn’t _that_ much of an idiot.) Taking a deep breath in, she held it for a second as she let her morbid curiosity guide her feet a couple steps closer down the clearing side of the fork in the woods. The light wasn’t as obvious, but she knew it must be there. 

The vibes. The spook vibes were back, the whispers flickering softly into existence. 

She let out her breath with another few steps. They got louder. Not deafening - not even fully intelligible - but more assuredly _there._

There definitely was a light. Not a lightbulb, or a flashlight, just a kind of… eerie glow. 

_Yeah, spook. Spooky. Very spooky, definitely, that is the accurate term for this vibe, it is a spooky vibe and it probably means you should turn around, turn around and_ —

It was the fog. 

Once she was close enough to see into the clearing through the trees, she could tell it was the fog. And maybe _glow_ wasn’t the word for it. It didn’t look like it was giving off light itself, just reflecting, diffusing it from a nonexistent moon. 

Her hand tightened on the flashlight. She kept walking. The whispers got louder. 

Her eyes dropped to her feet, trying to find the edge of the fog. Was it really just _in_ the clearing? Just past the treeline? How did it keep itself there? Even the fog of the field had more of a gradual decline into camp, not a hard line.

Sure enough, it was like a wall in the air. The spot where the fog just hovered, a solid foot of ground cover, hanging there. It moved, as fog often did, a slight subtle movement that was only visible by looking over it, watching the upper limit of the densest fog before it dissipated higher off the ground.

Was it a wall? 

The question of climbing came into her mind again. That had fucked with the survivors’ physics. Maybe this was the same. An actual physical block that stopped things entering or exiting the clearing. 

Only one way to know, really. 

Her feet scuffed against the dirt as she drew closer, but she couldn’t hear them over the noise filling her ears. Not a single message was distinct, just echoes of consonants to words she couldn’t hear. Beckoning and warning all at once.

She wouldn’t step in. Just… kick the barrier. Just test it. No more than that. A simple check for impossible physics, and then she’d leave. 

Inching closer, Sam hesitated, grinding her foot against the ground for a second. Then she just… stepped a toe in. 

There wasn’t a wall. 

There wasn’t a wall, but there _was_ a change. Her heartbeat… It was too loud, too obvious, cutting through the hiss of whispers. The hair on her arms stood on end, a static of fear fizzing on her skin. 

The fog never passed the border of the clearing. It stayed put. But she still had to resist a pull. 

Currents and eddies of ill intent hung and shivered in the air, beckoning. It was a breath on the back of her neck, lips on her ear. _“Go to sleep, Sammy.”_

Sam’s head snapped around, jerking away from what wasn’t there, stumbling for a second, eyes wide as she slapped a hand over the spot he’d touched. Hammering. Her heart was hammering far too fast, like he was right there— she could’ve _sworn_ he was right there— he’d _touched_ her, she’d _felt_ it, she’d _felt_ him—

Nothing. No one. 

A lullaby hummed in the air. 

Sam turned again, hurriedly stepping back from the fog, but she still heard it. There was something in there. There were shadows. There was _movement_ in there, figures that hadn’t been there before, smudges of darkness in the mist. 

_Hallucinations. They told you there could be hallucinations._

Just because she'd been warned didn’t make the flickering images any less terrifying. The whispers were wailing, hoarse soft creaking breaths from shredded lungs too weak to scream. 

Sam pushed her hand over her mouth, stifling a cry, trying to breathe, trying not to scream herself, trying to remind herself _hallucinations,_ they weren’t _real,_ it was just the fog—

In a moment of desperation - or maybe just clarity - she flicked on the flashlight, aiming it at the figures in shadow. 

The fog billowed out around the light, clearing a gap in the air in a thin beam that should’ve been wider.

The lullaby faded.

Her heartbeat began to slow. 

…The fuck. 

What the absolute _fuck_ was that? 

She felt all kinds of twitchy. Her ear itched again and she slapped at it, swatting away what wasn’t there. The whispers were quieter, but they still breathed. 

Yep, she’d really known it; that was such a stupid idea, massive mistake, it was _well_ past time to leave. 

Once back in her bunk, back in whatever safety the Campfire offered, she took to her bed and let herself think on what she’d seen, what she’d _felt._

Her heartbeat wasn’t amplified by the Entity now, but she still felt it thudding hard. 

They’d been there. 

She may not have _seen_ them, but they’d been there. Those shapes in the mist, the shadows. Something in the fog— touching it let her see them, but… they’d been there all along. _Hallucinations,_ maybe. Maybe some of it could be attributed to that. Frank hadn’t been behind her, that—

_Legion._ Legion hadn’t been on the survivors’ side. She’d imagined that. He couldn’t pass to their side. 

…She was… She was like… 99% sure he couldn’t.

…89%

But she’d been able to step into the clearing, so who’s to say…

No— no, survivors could go into the clearing. They could go during the day, and she’d been able to step into it at night, so it wasn’t impossible. But at night… She’d had the thought, earlier, that it wasn’t survivor ground. Was it killer ground? Is that why they didn’t go there at night? 

Suddenly, that hint of an idea she’d had before, that tickle at the back her mind like she’d been missing something, came to the fore, in full clarity.

_A Campfire._

That was what it was, wasn’t it? The meadow, the tree trunks, the rocks. They’d felt settled because they _had_ been. Or they _were?_

Did the killers have a Campfire? 

No, she would’ve seen it when the flashlight cleared the way. 

An old one, maybe? Was there a different Campfire before the one the survivors had now? Maybe… shared ground? Is that what let them both in? 

What was there before? Another Campfire. …Another Entity? Different survivors, different killers, but the same game? Or something else entirely. Did any of the survivors remember it? Did any of the other survivors _feel_ it, like she did? 

If it _was_ shared ground, how did they get there? Did the fog pull them or… No, she knew as well as the rest of them, even if they never voiced it. It felt wrong for a reason. Survivors didn’t go there because survivors _couldn’t_ go there. The Deep Forest was killer territory.

It sent a chill through her, knowing she’d been so close to it. Knowing they still _were_ so close to it. 

Her sleep wasn’t restful. Too many questions. It was full of fog and heartbeats and whispers. Of breath in her ear and a hand on her neck. 

But she slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Oh, and a little budding obsession. No biggie. 
> 
> Oh man. Good stuff comin' up. Gooood stuff. A short chapter and then a couple long ones. Good stuff tho. :3
> 
> Also: thanks to everyone commenting! It makes me very happy! Especially cause there are times where I'm like hmmm, I know *I'm* horny for fear, but other people? xD (Speaking of which: tw for knifeplay in future chapters. ~~Murder intimacy anyone?~~ And you may want to keep an eye on tags as well, as always.)
> 
> One-a-day for chapters seems to be the pattern, but who knows when life will get in the way. I need to stop going to bed at 9am. Cheers 😂


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an offering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is _very_ short, and for that I am sorry. But it leads into two chonky chapters that (hopefully) people will like.

“Good news.”

Sam rolled over in her makeshift bed, raising a hand to block her eyes from the overcast light. So bright for so much grey sky. Zarina stood just inside the lip of their lean-to, holding out— “Oh.” Her jacket.

Zarina paused midway through lifting the item toward Sam, hesitating. 

What? 

_Oh. Fuck._

Sam immediately dropped her hand, wrapping it in the blanket along with the other one. Shit. Shit, she’d seen a scar. 

And _fuck_ there was that look. That pity, that wariness. Shit. That’s— fuck, no, that was— _dammit._

Sam leaned forward to snatch the garment away, immediately pulling it on and— what— something was in her sleeve, shit, it was scratching her but she needed to cover up. She pushed her arm past anyway, wincing as whatever it was scratched a line up over her elbow. She looped her thumbs through the cuffs, averting her eyes. 

“Sam… do you—”

“Thanks.” Sam cut her off before she could continue. No, she didn’t want to talk. She hadn’t wanted anyone to see those, hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Zarina may not have been as bad as some, but it was still an irreversible discovery. Like every time someone was told about her _unfortunate incident_. 

There was a lump in her throat. _Stupid thing to get upset about. It was bound to come out eventually._ _Don’t you dare fucking cry over this, don’t you fucking dare, there's no good reason._

“…No problem.” Zarina’s voice was soft. After a second of pause, of awkward silence, she cleared her throat. “Jake found it. In the clearing.”

The clearing. God, just one bad memory after another, here. 

“Thanks,” Sam repeated. 

When Zarina hesitated again, Sam stood. She didn’t want to have this conversation. Not now. Not ever, if she could help it. Or, not— She didn’t know her well enough, that was all. Maybe she could tell, one day. If Sam trusted her. If Zarina could cut it out with the _helper_ attitude. She didn’t want advice on how to move past her trauma unless she asked for it.

Sam left, heading for the river. 

She hadn’t actually bathed the whole time she’d been in this place, which should've felt gross, but she’d never felt the need to. Every trial brought them back clean. Besides, she didn’t have any kind of bathing suit or anything, and she wasn’t ready to just strip down where people could see. Even if she could walk a little downstream toward the fog, or upstream toward the forest, people could still get close enough to see her before she could cover up again. 

Okay, no swimming, then. Instead, Sam started to untie her Docs before pausing. 

It took a second for the image to click. _Cherry juice._ Stained fingers had her worried for a second, but she finished her task, pulling off too-clean socks and shaking her head at yet another bizarre feature of this place. The legs of her jeans were too tight to get them rolled up past her knees, but that would have to do. 

The motion rolling them made her jacket tug, that thing poking her again. Examining the outer sleeve, she spotted a thin bar of metal midway up. Given her unfortunate middle school years, she’d seen enough of them to know: that was the backside of a button. A pin. 

She held the fabric around it with her off hand as she pulled her arm out of the sleeve carefully, frowning at the welt that ran along her skin. 

At least it proved they could get hurt. No invulnerability here, just an inability to actually die. 

She briefly wondered how long the mark would last. And how far she could push it. And how far she’d be _willing_ to push it.

At that, she gritted her teeth. No. Bad. She wasn’t willing to push it. 

Instead of thinking about that, she turned the sleeve inside out, and immediately froze. 

This had to be some kind of joke. 

Someone had put it there to fuck with her, some kind of hazing or—

_Survivors don’t do that, you know they don’t do that, and you know they didn’t do this._

The face on the pin was too familiar. Chewing at her cheek and grimacing, she tucked the thing into her pocket. Needed to get rid of that as soon as possible. Burn it. Maybe the Campfire would take it and get it out of this realm. If not, it would at least be a satisfying sight: Legion’s mask buried in ash and flames. 

Pushing her arm back through the sleeve, she kicked her feet down the edge of her rock perch to splash them into the water. 

The river wasn’t bad. Kind of nice, actually, but… Well, now she couldn’t stop thinking of it. 

She was paranoid. Like it was an extension of him, always too close for comfort. 

_Goddamn it._

So much for taking a second to relax away from the others. She wanted that pin gone as soon as possible. 

Letting out a long angry sigh, Sam stood and grabbed her discarded socks and shoes. No time like the present. The Campfire was usually empty during the day, anyway, only getting crowded once dusk set in. 

Trudging over grass and then dirt that stuck to still-wet feet, Sam felt herself scowling. Not giving off the best impression, if anyone was around to see, but she didn't see anyone and she wasn’t in the mood, anyway. She’d wanted to ask Zarina about the clearing, but now that was definitely off limits, and then the fucking _pin_ —

She dug her hand into her pocket again, grabbing it, and tossed it into the Fire. Good riddance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3
> 
> Anyway, sometimes you create new mechanics to explain features in the game.  
> Feel free to guess at that in the comments. You may be very right.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a trial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3c

It was snowy. It was snowy, and she still had wet dirty feet and pants rolled up to her knees. 

Was this a trial? But trials happened at night. 

The abandoned ski lodge looked the same as the last time she’d seen it. Even the sky was identical. So… it must be. 

A shit lot of good shoes would be as an item, she should get them back on her feet. It may have not been _freezing,_ but it certainly wasn’t _warm,_ and the wet and cold didn’t go great either. 

It was too early in the day for a trial. Wasn’t it? The whole situation kept rubbing her wrong. She would’ve expected something after dusk. And she’d gotten the warning last time, had time to prepare herself. This wasn’t the same. 

**_Two generators left._ **

Sam frowned. They’d literally just started. There was no possible way someone could’ve finished three whole gens. She didn’t even know who else was here. It felt off. Not like other trials.

There was no killer in sight, yet. She moved as speedily as possible, intending to get the hiding place she’d gotten before, but as soon as she was in the lodge she hesitated. 

Nice warm fire. Cold wet feet. Sure could use a second to put on her shoes, anyway. 

There was no heartbeat. No red stain. The killer wasn’t close. If there was a killer at all. It felt… empty. 

Sam gave a cursory glance around. Nothing. Nada. 

_Fuck it._

It was a glitch in the system. Might as well get her shoes on and then start on gens to get those exit doors open.

She hopped down into the pit around the fireplace, with all its scattered cushions, and took a seat. Rubbing her feet on the ground, she lifted the first to brush off the remaining dirt, already re-rolling her sock to poke a toe in, but—

_You’re fucking kidding me._

Heartbeat. She gave up on her task, leaving her shoes where they were, and ran up the stairs, trying to look around as she did so, looking for the red light. If it was here, she didn’t see it, so as soon as she hit the top floor she crouched and moved slow, behind cover, listening. 

Running feet outside. Then, a clatter through one of the entrances on the first floor. The movement stopped, punctuated with a growl of frustration. Sam started inching backwards, trying to keep her eyes toward the first floor. She couldn’t see from up here. 

Steps. Heartbeat. They were moving, but not running, just walking. Maybe they felt the emptiness, too. Maybe they’d think there weren’t any survivors. If she kept quiet enough, if she snuck and hid, they might give up. 

And what would happen then? Could a killer call off a trial? Or would the fact that there was a trial at all tell them there was a survivor somewhere in the area. 

A few more steps. The creak of the stairs. 

Sam held her breath. Tucked herself further into her corner and wondered if she could make it out the hall in time or if the movement alone would catch the killer’s attention. 

The steps up the stairs were suddenly double time, and her heart leapt into her throat, reliant on her position to shield her because there was no way in hell she could run fast eno—

“There you—”

The last word was lost, a searing pain in Sam’s shoulder as she relocated. Well, at least that was consistent. She held her hand on the too-deep wound to close it up, like she had before.

She was in the shack again, like last time. Wonder why that hadn’t been the case at the gas station. Was it by chance, or by design?

She frowned, skin itching and heart racing despite being well away from the killer. 

It was him, _again._ That couldn’t be right. They’d just had a trial last night, there was no way they’d get matched again so quickly, or no way she’d get _him_ instead of a different Legion member, how had—

The pin. 

The pin? _Could_ it be the pin? 

Her thoughts continued racing as she walked quietly down the stairs into the basement. It was a hiding game for her, and she needed healing. She’d seen the chest in that corner last time she was in the basement, and she needed a medkit. 

Trying to rummage quietly, paying close attention for the heartbeat, she focused again on her dilemma. 

She was here. Potentially alone. With Frank. Legion. …Frank. She wasn’t sure what to call him. 

Her hands hesitated at the little shiver that ran through her, suddenly all-too-aware of her location. The same place. Not the same map, maybe, but the same room. 

She had to move aside quite a few useless items to get to the medkit, but there was one. Throughout her search, she felt like someone was standing behind her. But every time she glanced back, it was empty. Just the memory, haunting her. 

Once she had the medkit in hand, it was healing time. Gradually. Carefully. Way too slowly for her own taste. Medkits had _actual_ bandages, unlike the ‘hold out your hand, boom, there’s a magic, whoopdedoo’ that went along with healing other survivors. …They still faded into her skin when she finished the job. Disappearing along with the injury, leaving just a shallow ache in its place. And still more bandages in the kit. She’d have to keep it close. 

Heartbeat. 

Sam ducked into a locker quietly. 

It passed. 

Stay in the locker, or leave? She’d have to get gens done if she wanted to escape this trial. If it really was just her, she was the only one that could do it. 

Letting out a breath, Sam exited the locker and made her way back upstairs. No generator in the shack this time. She had to head outside, bare feet and all. Shame the bandages weren’t real enough to offer a little protection there. 

There was movement in the distance, and Sam crouched, watching. Was it coming— yes, it was coming towards her. 

_Move or hide, move or hide, make a choice Sam._

Hide. She was better at hide. And she couldn’t fucking run without shoes in this. 

Crouch, cover, silence.

The voice was well away, reaching her before he was even close enough for a heartbeat. 

“I know you’re here, Sammy! It’s just you and me.” There it was, the heartbeat, getting closer. He was still shouting, probably trying to hit everywhere on the map. “I got your boots, puppy. I know it’s you. I saw you, before your magic trick.” 

Further away. He’d missed her, walking past. But she wasn’t in the clear yet, didn’t trust herself to be in the clear until he was far enough away to block line of sight. 

“Just you. And me.” 

Fuck. He’d stopped moving. Watching for movement, probably, waiting for her to bolt. How had he known she was over here? Had she left a trail? No, she wasn’t bleeding and she wasn’t running. She was hidden. He must be guessing. 

Lucky guess, though. 

“I can give you what you want.”

That put more of a chill in her than the snow. Death. He meant death. She’d begged him for it. There was a promise in that. She held her breath. The heartbeat was still there, getting stronger. 

Would another hit take her down, or would she get popped somewhere else? 

_I can give you what you want._

…

Wait, he _could_ give her what she wanted. 

If she wanted to test her bleed out theory… maybe this was the place to do it.

“Be a good puppy. Come.”

Sam gritted her teeth. Even if she’d made her choice, did she really have to respond to _that?_ Her lips pursed, shaking her head minutely. If she did what he asked, she’d get a chance to speak. If she could speak she could make her offer. There were plenty of possibilities besides the hook. If she got blinked away to somewhere else on the map again, or if she ran while he was doing that ritualistic wiping of his blade. Or maybe his goal really was to mori her, and it wouldn’t be a hook anyway. 

She stood, moving out from cover, trying to ignore the heartbeat that so constantly told her to run. 

Eyebrows lifted at her sudden appearance, a grin breaking out over his features. “…Good girl.” It was almost a purr, and far too predatory. 

He wasn’t wearing his mask. He wasn’t even wearing _jeans._ Pj pants and flip flops, and an unfamiliar hoodie. Had he been pulled here in the middle of something else, as well? It was such a juxtaposition, him in pjs. Didn’t look so scary without the blood. 

Still had a knife, though. Nowhere to put it, except for the obvious option of _her body._ Which she could only assume was the plan as he walked toward her. 

He was taking his goddamn time. Gloating. _Swaggering._ Tossing the blade up and down casually. 

Sam held out her hands. “Wait.”

Frank halted. 

Okay. So he was listening to her. This was feasible. “I have a proposition.”

Delight. Absolute malicious _delight_. His gaze flicked over her. “Gotta say that’s a first. Never been propositioned by one of you before.”

“Not a—” Sam felt her face heating, as much with embarrassment as irritation, and her tone lost some of its diplomacy. “I’m not fucking _propositioning_ you, asshole, I have a—”

Didn’t like that name, apparently, cause he was coming at her and Sam stumbled back as he stopped, knife pointed towards her chest. 

She had room to back up, so she did. “I have a proposal,” she amended, not backing down. After a momentary pause, she added, “And not that kind of proposal, either.”

“Indecent?”

She let out a breath, glaring. _This fucker._ “It involves you getting to kill me, so… yes?” 

“…You haven’t seen that movie, have you?” he smirked.

No. “Do you want to hear it, or not.”

He took another step closer, blade still raised chest-high, and Sam took another step back, feeling herself getting closer to a pile of debris. Any more and she’d have to either hit it or duck around it, and she didn’t want to start a chase. This could be a scientific study instead of a hunt. He could help her. 

That goddamn heartbeat, though. Every pulse was just _run, run, run,_ and she knew it was right. 

“You still owe me from the last time.”

“Great, this can pay it off."

“That good?”

Was it? …It could be. “…You wanted to know how I did that healing thing, right?”

Frank’s eyes narrowed, and he took another step. 

The only option was to back up until her legs hit the wood behind her. Not the chase. She might have him with this, and it would be so much easier than running. 

Her confidence wavered for just a moment, eyes leaving his face to watch the knife as it waited mere inches from her. 

“Mmmhmm.” The lazy way he hummed it seemed to vibrate the air. 

Sam swallowed, but focused on the task at hand. “So do I.”

“Hm.” Another hum, this time noncommittal. The knife inched closer, tapping one of the buttons of her jacket with a soft click, and he moved forward again. 

No way to get past now, even if she wanted to. Which she definitely did. He may not have been touching her, but he might as well be. That same overwhelming presence, invading her space, heart rate up, nervous breath she tried to calm. _Watch the knife._

“What do you want me to do to you?” The question was low. 

_Jesus,_ why did he have to word it like that? For a split second she looked away from the knife, shooting him an irritable glare, and she immediately regretted it. 

Too close. Too close. 

_Well, firstly, step the fuck off._

She bit her tongue, looking back at the knife. The steady rise and fall of her breath clicked the metal together again and again, making her too aware of how quickly she was breathing. Watching it, she tried to slow her breath, or make it shallower, to stop the noise. 

“Puppy.” 

Her lips pulled at the nickname. She couldn’t forget it slipping into her thoughts the night before. And then that echo of his voice, his lips on her ear, haunting her outside the clearing. She should stab him for that. As soon as she figured out how to make stabbing work, she was going to stab him. Top of the list. 

The knife rose and Sam stiffened, trying to pull back as the tip moved beneath her chin, hovering there for a second before pressing the flat of the blade to her skin, raising her face to look at him. 

She didn’t _want_ to be scared. She was about to ask him to kill her. Why was his knife to her throat such a threat, if that was what she wanted in the end? 

_Too close._

Not the knife. The proximity. (Well, the knife too, probably. But it was so hard to think of the distinctions at the moment.)

“What…” Frank spoke slowly, watching her struggle, soaking up every reluctant ounce of fear he could get his greedy little hands on. “…Do you want…" _Not little. They fucking crushed your carotid arteries, those hands are not little._ "…From me.” 

She could just stab herself on it. Just lean into it and let it cut her. She was starting to notice the soft ache in her back from holding herself at such an awkward angle to keep distance between them. “Space,” she breathed.

He raised an eyebrow, not expecting that. 

“I mean— I need—” She couldn’t look him in the eyes, focusing on the ink on his neck. And she couldn’t think. And she shouldn’t be admitting this, dammit, she was supposed to be the one in control of this situation, it was _her_ idea. “I can’t— just take a step—”

“Use your words.”

“Don’t fucking patronize me,” she snapped, jaw still tight. Trying not to nudge the blade.

He grinned. “And the bitch is back.”

“I can’t think with—” She swallowed, and glared right at him. “You’re too close.”

“Killing is a kind of a close-contact sport.” 

_First off: no. Not always. Axe bunny._

“Frank. I can’t talk with—” The blade lowered, and Sam’s chin dropped, her gaze skirting off to the side again. Fuck it. She just had to— just say it. _Do it. Now._ “I need to bleed out.” 

“Oh, that’s all?” The blade sliced across her torso in one burning slash, and she was gone again, relocated. 

“…Fuck.” But it was probably for the best. She was starting to lose her nerve, anyway. 

Sam took cover and immediately opened the medkit to tend to her wounds. Or, at least, attempted to. It was stuck, lodged shut somehow, preventing her from healing. 

_Don’t bother. Didn’t you want to bleed out?_

God, she wasn’t sure what she wanted anymore. But she was glad to be away from him. He was too much. Too close, all the time. Overwhelming her constantly, in all the wrong ways. If he just killed her outright, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. It was the _playing._ The toying with her, the— the touching. So much contact. 

She was by a generator. 

Risk the noise? Was she even hiding? 

Sam sighed. Some part of her had thought being the only survivor would be simpler. 

Might as well get one started. Legion would find her soon, anyway. She only needed two. 

She worked for maybe four whole seconds before changing her mind. No, she’d made the proposition. If she backed out now, he’d make it worse. If she steered it the way it needed to go, she’d at least be learning something from the pain. 

_Something aside from your complete inability to handle literally anything._

That wasn’t fair. But she rarely was, to herself. That’s what made life so very exciting. And so full of suicide attempts. 

She limped back toward the ski lodge. 

Seeing a figure in the distance she raised a hand, but kept walking. “I have more points,” she called. “And I need you to let me say them before you stab me again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3
> 
> Hello and welcome to Kill Your Friends mode, as recreated in the narrative universe of this fic xD I know it cuts off kinda abruptly, but that's because it was insanely long and I needed to split it. A lot is coming next chapter.  
> (Oh, and for their perks: since this was unexpected, default perks are applied. Discordance is completely useless in this case.)
> 
> In other news: EREBIA IS DRAWING FRANK AND HE'S FUCKING GORGEOUS HOLY SHIT.  
> Also: did you know that nipple piercings got popular for guys in the 90s? No? Me neither. And now I do. 
> 
> Next chapter is a DOOZY, always watch out for tags, friends, and I'll drop a warning up top.  
> As always: I'd love to hear your reactions xD


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kill your friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably wait a few more hours to give a 24 hour gap between uploads but
> 
> GUYS EREBIA DID THE ART AND IT'S AMAZING OMG LOOK AT IT  
>  [click to see the post on tumblr]
> 
> [ ](https://selene-sins.tumblr.com/post/618072044174737408/)
> 
> I'm dying, I love it so much holy hell.  
>  Anyway, **tw for graphic depictions of suicide, blood, knifeplay** … yeah. xD

Frank was waiting by the door as Sam approached, leaning on the wall outside, the knife loosely dangling from his hand. 

“I want to explain.” Did she? Did she _really?_ She wanted to kill time. “Can we go inside? I want my shoes.”

“Lead the way.”

He’d stopped chasing. Didn’t need to, when she was coming to him. Sam avoided glancing back at him, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end as she headed into the lodge, taking her seat from earlier. Keep talking. She’d either put off her death, or talk herself into trying it again. And there was no possible way telling him about her weirdass abilities wouldn’t at least _somewhat_ pay back the hatch. He’d figure it out eventually, anyway. They all would. Killers and survivors. He at least already knew the gist.

“I’ve been trying to pinpoint my skills.” She didn’t look at him, just scuffing fresh dirt off of her bare feet before propping one up by the fire while she found a sock. “The climbing one. That’s one. And then— I’m not sure how the weird movement thing works. I haven’t been able to figure it out, it’s inconsistent.”

Was he ever this quiet? 

_Don’t wonder about it. Keep talking._

“Sometimes I get hit and it takes me somewhere else, sometimes I stay put. First hit is usually fine. Second one did it, in my match with axe bunny—” She stopped short at his snort of laughter. 

“‘ _Axe bunny?’_ ” 

Sam shot him a sidelong glance. Frank was lounging on the cushions further down from her, sandals off and feet propped up beside him, looking like this was his normal. Looking like… just… a regular guy. She found herself unexpectedly stunned for a moment. She shouldn’t be, she knew he was human— not just human, she knew he could pass for a survivor, it was just… odd. Misplaced. _Shockingly devoid of blood._ (Lies. There was a growing stain of it on the inside of his forearm where he wiped his blade.) 

“Wait, you mean Anna?”

“That… is a name.” And not one she’d heard before. Such a weirdly normal name. That definitely wasn’t what the other survivors called her. Sam returned her attention to her footwear, tying her laces. 

“It certainly is. _Her_ name, as a matter of fact. Shocking, I know, she seems more like an Olga to me.” And now he was cracking jokes. It was bewildering.

“Helga, maybe?” Sam suggested in a murmur, rolling pant legs down to her boots again. “What name screams _seven foot tall and could bean you with a hatchet?”_

“At this point? Anna.” His tone was ruefully amused, “Go on.”

Right. She’d been saying something. “Um…” She hated stumbling over her words. “I guess, I just don’t know the rules on it, or when it doesn’t work. That’s not— it wasn’t what I wanted your— what I was offering to you.” Probably the better way to word it. If he thought he was doing her a favor - which, let’s be real, he’d probably figured out from that little slip up, if not before - he’d undoubtedly hold it over her. 

“You want to bleed out.”

“I think that’s what triggered Rebirth.”

Sam could feel the shift in the air as she avoided his gaze, hesitating before popping the medkit. Needed a control, right? Needed to start from zero. Her fingers fumbled with the catch, but it opened as she glanced over at him. 

He was watching her carefully, no longer joking. “…Rebirth.”

“That’s— I swear, I did _not_ choose that name,” she looked away again, starting to awkwardly wrap the bandages around her chest over her jacket. It was bulky as hell, and the movement tugged at the wound and made her wince, but she could tell it was still working. “It was— you know, the thing. The thoughts.”

“The Entity.”

Did they get them, too? Were they the same bulletins? Did they get more?

“I was dying, and then I was burning— which was… great, just… _swell_. And then I was fine.”

“You were reborn.” 

“Certainly would seem that way, given the name.” Obviously. 

“…Now, were you a Christian before you got here, or are you Born Again?”

Sam cracked a smirk, continuing her work. “I made the same joke. Or something like it.”

He was quiet for a second, while she felt the gash across her chest starting to close. “…To your teammates?”

Her fingers faltered for a second before she continued healing. “To myself.” They still didn’t know. “I am my best audience, after all,” she continued, with wry humor. “Very honest with my criticism; really improves the craft.” The bandage ran out, the injury all healed up and just throbbing dully for a moment.

She rearranged the items in the medkit. Not much left. Not even a whole roll of mystical bandage business, just some tools she had no idea how to use. She shut it, picking at the latch of the box. Her throat went dry as she ran out of stalling time. 

“You ready?”

The question surprised her. Sam was kind of… taken aback. She snapped her gaze to him. “You _asking?”_ she shot back before she could stop herself. 

_Don’t discourage good behavior. You’re lucky you made it this far without just getting straight up gored._

“It’s my first consensual murder.”

An unexpected nervous laugh bubbled out of her. “That’s— fair. Same.”

Frank shook his head. “I distinctly recall you begging me to kill you,” he drawled, far too cocky. “So… even if I didn’t follow through, I’m pretty sure this counts as the second.”

Sam shook her head with a disbelieving hint of a smile before she let out a breath, looking down at the floor. Her words were more to herself than him, murmured under her breath. “…God, I’m so fucked up.”

“Honestly, yes.” 

She rolled her eyes for a second, then stopped, shrugging. Accurate. She’d just said it, she shouldn’t argue with it. 

“…And I’m pretty sure your attempt before was consensual, too.”

Any last vestiges of humor struggled to hold on at that uncomfortable acknowledgement. She started to pick at her fingers, still stained. Never got a chance to wash before coming here. Not quite blood red, too pink. 

“Lie down.”

Sam stiffened, shooting him a sharp look at that command.

“I’m not going to—” He cut himself off, laughing. “I _am_ going to hurt you," he corrected himself. "As a matter of fact, I’m going to kill you. You’re literally asking for it, though,” he pointed out; “You brought this on yourself, puppy.”

The words were straight out of her thoughts. She swallowed hard. 

“I’d ask if you trust me, but the smart answer would be no.”

Accurate. Very accurate. She was still quiet. 

“I’m going to kill you either way. Take your chances. Either lie down or start running. I’ll give you a head start, since it’s just you. But I can’t promise I’ll be gentle once I catch you. Chases are kinda my _thing._ ”

“Thought that was stabbing,” Sam muttered, flatly. 

“Stabbing, cutting, skinning, woodwork.” He was joking with her. Had to be. “All essential knife skills.”

“But not cooking?” Seems like it should be part of the list. 

“Nope.” So lighthearted for a guy about to kill her. With a whole lot of prelude. And reminders of what exactly was about to happen, like he expected her to back out. Fuck, it was— 

Oh Jesus, it was like the guy she lost her virginity to. Oh fuckin’ Christ. Why. _Why_ did that thought have to come up now? Not the time to be— 

“Get busy running or get busy dying, puppy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He let out a breath of laughter. “I feel like you’ve forgotten the minor fact that _I have a knife._ " His voice hardened in an instant. "And you don’t. And you couldn’t use it if you did, and I have a _lot_ of practice. I am very good with my tools.” _Motherfucker._ Frank stood, spinning the blade around in his hand once as he took a step closer, face gone dark and smile grim. “Be glad you’re something cute. Could’ve called you a cow. Or a pig. All you runners are meat for slaughter, don’t forget that.”

What a fuckin’ dick. How the hell had she forgotten _that_ for even a fraction of a second. 

“Lie down, puppy. This might take a while.”

Why was this surprising? _Killer._ He was a killer. She shouldn’t be—

The hilt of the knife hit her in the sternum and he pushed her back into the cushions. “ **Lie.** **Down.** ”

There was a beat of pause. He pulled the hilt away, turning it in his hand to point the blade back at Sam. 

Sam lay down. 

“Take off your jacket.”

She hesitated.

“I told you, I’m not going to do anything besides what we agreed on.”

He hadn’t, actually. Hadn’t said that. And she wasn’t sure she’d have believed him if he did. He’d as good as told her not to trust him.

“Sammy. I’ve only got so much patience, and you’re testing it. Jacket. Off.”

She took it off. 

This did not feel like a prelude to death. This definitely did not feel like a prelude to death. 

“Arm.”

That lessened her worry, a little. No more stripping. He’d just wanted access, like when he’d pushed her sleeve up to check the tattoo. She held out the arm on his side of the cushions. She could handle touching an arm. Arms could be a safe zone. She had to shake hands all the time. 

She watched him carefully, trying to tell the difference between the heartbeat of the trial and her own fear. It wasn’t existential terror at the moment, just a creeping fear: the unknown, what he’d do next. 

He sat down on her cushions, scooting her legs over. “Nudge up.” 

She made room. Tried not to focus on the warmth emanating off of him. The spot where his back touched her legs. A hand was holding her wrist firmly. She watched with morbid curiosity, and a healthy dose of fear, as he flipped the knife into another hold, bringing the tip to her skin. 

Sam stiffened. Cold metal. Sharp point. Even _she_ could see the goosebumps rise on her arms, and he was so much closer. 

Frank smirked. 

Yep. He definitely saw that. She would never hear the end of—

The noise that came out of her mouth was a garbled mess, her whole body shaking in a sudden tiny tremor at the sensation of the tip skimming over her skin, and she whimpered softly, parts of her brain lighting up that definitely shouldn’t be. His grip tightened to keep her still. There was no cut left in its wake, just a thin welt. Frank had lifted the blade away before her rather spectacular reaction pushed against it.

“See?” The knife came down onto skin again, this time moving to her upper arm, even more sensitive than the first spot. “Now aren’t you glad you took off your jacket?” 

Sam chewed on her lip, free hand clutching at the cushion under her, another tiny whine slipping from her. Fuck. This was… She shivered, and she couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. 

Should be bad. This was for his own sadistic enjoyment, not for her. It definitely _should_ be bad, given the whole murder thing. 

…But it might not be. 

It was like a tickle that left a bite in its wake, burning and itching, and wanting to be touched and soothed. _Wanting._ _Wanting_ to be touched. 

It was like floodgates opening. She hated it. Worst possible timing to need contact. Worst possible person to be with. She bit her tongue. Closed her eyes. Tried to lose herself in the points of contact she had, and her breath, and the heartbeat drumming in her ears. His fingers clutching at her wrist were just this side of too tight, but she could feel every tiny adjustment, the texture of every fingerprint. Every millimeter of her arm bitten by the knife’s tip.

“When I say ‘see,’ I consider closing your eyes the opposite.” 

Sam ignored the implied request, and rolled her head to the side, away from him. Like any wound, the skin he marked needed attention. _She_ needed attention. 

_Not from a fucking killer you don’t._

She groaned at her own fucked up indecisiveness, pulling her free hand to her mouth, biting at a knuckle. Her face was hot. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. 

_And what had you expected, exactly?_

Her teeth worked at her skin, gnawing gently as she admonished herself. 

_What, you thought it would be quick and painless? So desperate to end it that you forgot who you’re dealing with? He made you beg him, last time. He’ll do it again._

An irritable growl rumbled in her throat. Remembering mistakes wasn’t great. Especially while she was in the middle of making one and she couldn’t stop it. 

“…Wow, you’re really cut up about this.”

Her eyes snapped open, turning back to glare at him. He was grinning. So fucking pleased with himself. “Ha ha,” she deadpanned, sourly, mouth half hidden behind the knuckle resting at her lips. “So clever.”

“If you’re not yet, do you want to be?” 

The gaze she leveled on him was searing, but quiet, just studying him as she seethed. That smirk. Playful. Toying with her, like always. 

_Sadistic killer, now with puns. Get yours today._

The man was absolutely mental. Batshit insane. But of course he was, he was a serial killer, she'd known that going in and she’d _still_ asked. 

Another line down her skin and she winced, fist clenching as she watched the knife. 

She just needed to touch the marks. They burned and stung and she had to soothe them somehow, since there was no way he would. But she couldn’t rub at her arm while he was still holding it, still working on it. Dragging swirls over her skin, tracing the curves and planes of every muscle. It itched, the blood rushing to the surface even if there was no cut to escape from, just welts adding texture to her skin. _Fuck_ it itched so much. 

Her hand was twitching even as she tried to keep still, muscles flexing under the blade. 

Limits. She’d had the thought before. Pushing until she hit her limit. The sheer release of shattering at the end. How she hadn’t been able to do it here— not emotionally - at least not in a trial, never losing momentum until the sacrifice - and not with running for her life. Would this hit a limit? Trials seemed to be exempt, when it came to stamina, but… This wasn’t running. This wasn’t manic hysteria. This was something else. 

She was chewing at her knuckle again, breath hard around it as she resisted the urge to pull away and tend to the marks. At least it distracted her from the rest of him.

The tip of the knife just barely touched skin as it grazed over the inside of her elbow, following the vein, and it made her twitch again, another frustrated whimper as she jerked her arm away - or tried to, he kept hold even if he'd pulled the knife away - and pressed her hand over the spot, rubbing at it to soothe the itch. 

Touching just made it burn more, but it alleviated _something_ at least, itching less, and she let out a relieved breath. 

“Ticklish?” Frank’s grip tightened on her wrist, making her wince. 

“Shut up,” she mumbled, rubbing her hand over heated skin, every little ridge noticeable against her fingertips. It was a stupid thing to say to him. She knew that. She did. But her skin had her full attention, the fire that crawled along every track he’d traced. 

The movement of his blade caught her eye, spinning around his finger the same way she’d flick a pen in her palm when she was fidgeting. Except, y’know, one was a murder weapon. 

Sam curled toward her captured arm to lever herself into a sitting position, still massaging at the marks, but she didn’t get very far with that move before the butt of the knife thudded against her chest again. 

“I told you to stay.”

Her lips pursed, irritable. “ _No_ , you didn’t.” He told her to lie down and she had. Besides, “I’m not leaving, I’m just—” She hissed in pain as he wrenched her arm at an awkward angle. 

In one move he’d shifted onto the cushions, pressing a knee to her stomach to force her back down, the pommel resting in the hollow of her neck. 

“Then I meant to.” 

_Yeah, but you didn’t._ Hard to think that when his weight was pinning her down. He was warm. The flannel of his pants was thin, body heat sinking straight through her shirt. 

“…I’m not done with you yet, Sammy.” The threat was more of a promise. There was a look in his eyes. That predatory gleam. Not that he wasn’t a monster at all times, but it was… brighter. Or darker? She was put in mind of a wolf, salivating, snarling and snapping for the kill. 

Her heart was in her throat, every pulse reminding her of the weapon pressed there, but the nicknames still irked her. She glared. “Make it quick, then,” she hissed between gritted teeth, “ _Frankie._ ” Her arm was still pressed over the edge of the seat, her other hand digging in tight to try to steady the painful position. 

Frank smirked. “Impatient and rude.”

“You’re one to talk.” Didn’t get much ruder than murder. Right? Probably the most impolite action, in the grand scheme of things. 

“I can be patient…” 

The knife pulled back from her neck, moving to the hand holding her arm and aimed to pry her fingers away before she saved him the trouble and let go, wincing as the arm she’d been supporting bent back even more. 

He pressed the tip of the blade into her palm gently, pushing the flat of it at an angle, directing her hand back to her side without actually breaking skin. “…I’m taking my time with _you,_ aren’t I?”

Why did that make her shiver? Her neck was flushed, and she dropped her eyes to his tattoo to avoid meeting his gaze, grumbling, “Yeah, cause you get off on it.” 

He laughed. At her. Not with her, because she wasn’t laughing. The pressure on her arm let up, and she flexed her fingers as he let go. The press of his knee into her stomach stole her breath for a second, and she gritted her teeth, but it was just a temporary pressure as he shifted again, straddling her. 

He didn’t confirm it. But he didn’t deny it, either, poised above her, spinning the knife around his finger again as she rotated and stretched the wrist he’d been holding back. The itch was starting to come back as blood rushed through her arm again, making the whole limb warm, but she hesitated to grab at it again. Instead, her hands rested awkwardly, unable to straighten arms to her sides without brushing against him, and unwilling to do so. 

“Our first time was so rough. You don’t want to try it gentle?” 

Why did he have to talk about it like that? Sam’s face burned, staring at the tattoo as she willed herself not to turn away. Jesus. And the heartbeat never shut up. He really was dragging it on. She gave up trying to match his composure, letting her face turn away. It wasn’t like there was winning in this situation. “It’s two fucking blows, Frank," she mumbled. "Just do it.”

His knees tightened against her sides and Sam felt a rush go through her at the action. _Shit._ See, _that_ was a lot closer to the type of fighting she actually liked. Which was… not good. Not good at all. Because now she was thinking of hitting a wall again - of release - and it was in a _very_ different way, a very _unwelcome_ way. Fuck. So fucked. So fucked up, Christ. 

She fixed the image of his mask in her mind. _Killer._ _Deranged psychopath._ The mask, and the knife. Every time he’d thrust it into her with the full intention of ending her life. 

Except it never did. Maybe temporarily, but she was still here. She still came back. They all did. Death was inevitable and inescapable, but impermanent. 

Which— right, okay— stop thinking about _that_ and start thinking about _this_ and about discovering _just how impermanent_ it could be. 

_Do what you came here to do. Die._

Her voice was stony. “If you don’t do it, I will.” She finally met his eyes again. “Give it to me and I’ll do it myself. It only takes two blows. I’m not here for your games.”

Sam sucked in a hiss of breath as Frank grabbed her unmarked arm, pulling it across her, twisting it painfully to get a better angle, his face gone hard. 

“Two to start it. You have plenty of time while you’re dying.” He was mad at her. Any geniality between them had evaporated with her patience, as soon as she’d snapped at him and cut off their twisted flirtation. “I can make that so much worse.”

He could. She knew that. He’d ripped her fucking chest open, gory mutilation wasn’t beyond him. 

…Fuck. 

If… if her Rebirth worked… This could really just… go on. A single trial that never ended. 

The idea made her dizzy, her breath speeding up, a quickened rise and fall of her chest, a shock of anxiety that came and went in an instant. She blinked her gaze back into focus. 

He was watching her. Not like he had been before— he was watching her the way she watched him. Reading her. Examining and interpreting. The anger had cooled to a simmer, a subtle resentment. His gaze flicked down to her arm again, bringing his blade to her wrist. 

Sam bit her lip but couldn’t help the pathetic cry that she muffled with her free arm as he finally broke skin. She shut her eyes tight, breath hard against her self-made gag. 

The blade didn’t cut down to the bone, but it did cut, tracing the scar that was already there, his grip tightening as she tried to jerk out of his hold, keeping her from moving until he’d perfectly replicated it. One injury. One to go. The blood was already dripping fast, free flowing, though not as fast as she’d expected. She’d assumed there might be some difference here, she hadn’t known what.

“Why did you do it, anyway?” Once the incision was complete - and the ritualistic cleaning against his sleeve, tallying his trophy - Frank returned to tracing patterns on skin again. Once more, too light to cut. 

The arm she’d been pressing to her mouth lowered, resting on her chest as she took careful, shaky breaths. It didn’t feel lethal. 

Like the first hit in any trial, something in her knew it wasn’t enough to take her down, even if blood was trickling into her palm on one end and sliding down her forearm on the other.

The question he’d asked hadn’t exactly been _gentle,_ but it hadn’t been outright angry, either. A begrudging solemnity. 

“…The first two didn’t take.” Christ, she sounded empty. Almost bitter, but without enough feeling to warrant the label. 

The tip of the knife passed over another sensitive spot and Sam’s eyes shut for a second, biting her lip and twitching, back arching briefly to press her hips down into the cushions. It _was_ a bit like tickling, actually. An itch that forced an involuntary reaction. He’d been right about that. 

Frank didn’t respond right away, adjusting her arm to a more comfortable position as he continued to work it over. The hand that held her wrist in position was soon coated in blood just like she was, sliding down the side of his palm and dripping past the cuff of his hoodie. He didn’t seem to mind. Maybe didn’t even notice. Used to it. Bloody profession.

“You didn’t disappear on me this time,” he pointed out, quietly, intent on his work. 

Oh. No, she hadn’t. “Another proof of inconsistent rules,” she murmured, closing her eyes. “Maybe cause you’re holding on. Who knows. Learn something new every day.” 

“Third time’s the charm?”

Her arm throbbed painfully, but she wasn’t trying to move through it, so that helped. He was holding her still. A warm pool was soaking straight through her shirt, the edges cooling. Another brush at sensitive skin made her shiver again, a pitched breath humming out of her momentarily. “Was only the second, last night.” Sam’s voice was soft. Her breath came out a shallow sigh.

He dropped her arm. Or— he didn’t drop it. Placed it down. Took up the other again. Briefly, fear shocked low on her back. Real fear that made her squirm for a moment, forcing him to hold her still. She knew what was coming and didn’t open her eyes, just shut them tighter, turning her face away. Just took a deep breath and held it. 

“‘Third time’s the charm?’” He repeated the question pointedly as the blade bit through skin again. 

This time she couldn’t help it, whimpering as tears sprang into her eyes. That was what the Entity could call a killing blow. And beyond that, it carried another weight. She hadn’t remembered how it had felt that night. The night she’d damned herself to this place. She didn’t realize how much a reenactment would fill her with regret. 

The blood spilled faster for this one, the other wound quickly matching pace. Sam’s breaths were wet, taken through closed teeth, leaning her head back and breathing tightly as she shook. “Fourth.”

There was silence for a moment, a thumb slipped against the wet skin of her wrist. Another moment and she felt the blade’s tip prick at the scar along her neck. Just once, not hard enough to break skin. 

“Mmhm,” she confirmed. It was time for that sweet sweet drifting away. The fire would come, but first the dark. 

But that was not how it worked, apparently. Not today.

Was this how it had felt that night? She didn’t remember the action, just waking up after. But now she was so _cold._ She couldn’t stop shaking. 

Tears slid down her cheeks and they were too cold, too. 

She felt a brief squeeze at her wrist but then she couldn’t feel her hands. Or her feet.

There was movement, and she thought maybe her arm was changing position— yeah, there was scratchy fabric against the welts along her upper arms, she could feel that. 

She _had_ felt it. 

A moment ago. Before she lost feeling there, too.

So cold. Like her veins were full of frosty air.

Oh god, she was going to be sick. 

She felt like water whirling down the drain— bloody water, spinning and spinning to emptiness. Nauseous.

The pressure on the rest of her body lessened. 

Where was the dark? Why wasn’t it coming?

Electricity sparked in her head, shooting light across the back of her eyelids, energy prickling at limbs too heavy to move. Telling her to stop before it was too late. But it _was_ too late. _Too late._ She could feel her heartbeat fading, drifting away. 

Her head was in two places at once. What was reality, what was memory.

It was taking so long. 

Even once the adrenaline faded, it was taking too long.

She felt immensely disappointed as her heart picked up again. 

No. She’d been so close, she knew she’d been so close…

“Heal.”

Sam’s body was a sandbag. A rag doll full of lead. No bones. 

She didn’t feel the hands, but something pried an eye open. All she could see was fuzzy light and shadow before it closed again.

Something shocked her back into reality. Into _this_ reality. 

The memory snapped away, ripped the paralysis out of her. It wasn’t the attempt, it wasn't a memory. Just a trial. 

But she still felt drained. Draining. Drips and drops and puddles of it.

It was better now, though. She could feel her limbs again. The throbbing in time to the heartbeat.

Her cheek stung. 

“Jesus, puppy. Heal.”

Her eyes felt heavy, but she dragged them open. 

Should’ve tried to recover, maybe. Didn’t want to. She was almost there. It was what she’d felt before: the calm. Like she was doped up on something, slowing every process in her body to a snail’s pace. “No.”

Vision focusing, she caught him mid-stride, pacing by the fire, and he stopped to glare at her. “Why the fuck not?”

Why was that so funny to her? Her lips broke into a lazy smile, snorting a weak laugh. “What’re you gunna do, kill me?” She was slurring. Or almost slurring. Almost there. 

He was standing next to her in an instant, lifting a medkit from the floor and setting it beside her, poking into her ribs. It was cold. Like it had been sitting in the snow. And heavy. Not the one she’d brought with her. “Do it.”

“Couldin if I wanned to,” she huffed a weak laugh, closing her eyes again. “Do it yerself, dickwad.” 

Almost. So close. There was a high that came this close to death, here. Way better than the real world. 

She just had to wait it out. 

A few more seconds.

“…No.”

Took him an awful long time to say that…

“Fhhh…” She was going to tell him to fuck off, maybe. But it was over. Blissfully over. 

Darkness overtook her, silence, the heartbeat fading out.

…

And then came the fire. 

Another round of paralysis. Burning. Like walking on the goddamn sun. She was awake again, clear headed again, back in her right mind, but _fuck_ it was agony. 

_Hoo bud, bad idea to test this._

Yeah.

Yeah, that was how it felt in the moment, for sure, not a pleasant—

Done. Just like that. Her skin still felt singed and over-sensitive and she winced at the rough fabric of the cushions against her arms as she pulled herself up. The heartbeat was hammering again. No other pains, though. She examined her arms. No cuts, no welts. The same scars she’d started with. No blood, either. 

The burn faded to that tingling sensation, and she let out a breath. Finally, she looked over to Frank. 

He was giving her a hard look, arms crossed over his chest. No knife?

Sam paused. “Thanks. I guess.” She wasn’t exactly sure what the appropriate response was to whatever had just happened. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, puppy?”

She raised a brow. “You’re— you’re kidding, right? I’m not the one who kills people as a lifestyle.” And he could fuck right off. She knew something was wrong with her, that was kinda the fucking point. Normal people didn’t want to die.

“It’s not real, Sammy, it’s a fucking job.”

That took her by surprise. What? _…What?!_ He was _stabbing_ people! Lifting them on to _meat hooks_! How the fuck could he claim it wasn’t real? “Certainly _feels_ real, _Frankie,_ ” she gritted her teeth.

“You all come back.”

Was he seriously… Was he serious? “We get our souls scraped out every time we’re hooked, you prick.” She might be able to excuse the killing, but the— no, she— she definitely _couldn’t_ excuse the killing, that wasn’t what she meant, it was just a better alternative to the hooks, that was all, didn't make it acceptable—

“Yeah, like we—” Frank’s voice cut short, shaking his head. “Fuck this.” He turned on a foot, heading for the stairs and waving a dismissive hand in the air. Still bloody. “Do your fucking gens. I don’t give a shit.”

Christ, what the hell was up with him? She’d just let him bleed her out. He’d been so thrilled to see her killed before. Wasn’t he supposed to be killing her _again,_ right now? “What about—”

“This isn’t a real trial. No consequences. Whatever this is, it doesn’t count. …Get the fuck out of my house.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. That happened.  
> :3c
> 
> Please tell me your thots.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> learning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how sometimes you remember that survivors CAN'T just have the same killer over and over again? *sigh*  
> Anyway, Sam had to learn some things. ^^

Time went on. Dying got easier. 

It was fucked up, but true enough. 

Things still hurt— they always hurt, that never changed. But dying got easier. 

Death was inevitable, and it was no longer an end, just another beginning. Hell. Or purgatory. Something. Sam was somewhere, and it was absolutely fucking miserable most of the time. 

But not all of the time. 

(Most of the time though, definitely most of the time; there was no possible way she’d ever choose to stay here, even if there were occasional moments of light in the darkness.)

There was time between sacrifices. She’d had a few more, easier than the first but not by much, and always miserable. But there was time after, for recovery. Zarina would sit with her, Jake would force her to walk, Kate would play guitar. There were things that helped. Support, nature, music. The same things she’d clung to in real life. 

She still preferred a mori over a sacrifice, no matter what, though they were a rare occurrence. She’d rather have the lingering pain of a brutal death, and a taste for revenge, than have nothing at all. She’d faced some new killers, some repeats, collected a few more moris to her name. Something about her must have just screamed ‘kill me’ (or she did, out loud, that _had_ happened a couple times). That fucking cowboy, though… 

Going against the Nurse had been nerve wracking, had her constantly paranoid for the shrieking and the killer’s off-putting ability to blink (is that what _she_ seemed to do? she was pretty sure she didn’t scream). But death by the Nurse had been probably Sam’s favorite: choking. Not as gently as Legion (and he was Legion again, he was very pointedly _just_ Legion, unless she was clarifying exactly which killer had been in someone’s trial), but still on the more merciful side. Huntress - _Anna,_ ha, she knew her name - had been another thing, that had been a migraine for the rest of her night. But the goddamn Deathslinger. 

Having a spear gun skewer straight up the trachea? Sickened her in the moment, and made talking hell all the way to the next afternoon. Not to mention a knot at her spine that she couldn’t alleviate without help, and she refused to let anybody touch her. That pain had lasted through to dusk. Almost all the way to the next round of trials. 

Her trials were going surprisingly okay, though. She’d picked up a few new skills, during the daytime. She still hadn’t quite gotten the idea of how to swap out her own innate abilities, at least not the two she’d figured out, so those stayed while she tried to get better at other things. The third one… Usually she’d end up thinking about it, and it would get… chosen, or whatever. If she thought about it right before the trial, it ended up sticking to her. She still couldn’t figure it out. Mostly tried to replace it, if she could, with skills she learned from other survivors. She’d definitely added several to her repertoire thanks to days of training. 

Meg had had her running sprints to the orchard and back over and over again until Sam hit the Entity-imposed limit she hadn’t thought existed, and pushed past it for however briefly she could manage before feeling exhausted. (“Yeah, try that when you’re already wounded,” had been David’s jeer from the sidelines, “that’s when it counts.” Which, to be honest, was a good point. But Sam wasn’t ready to commit to training for that one. Trying to avoid purposefully injuring herself for now.) Min had her vaulting back and forth through the training walls seemingly constantly, critiquing her form until whatever needed to click clicked and she could utilize her momentum for a nice burst of speed. There were hours of generator practice with Min, too, and Zarina showed her a trick that could set a delayed distraction, that was pretty neat. 

She even played a shit ton of poker with Ace— because apparently that did something, though she had no idea how. Just her and Bill and Ace, awkwardly gathered around a table in the mess hall one day, playing cards. Sam didn’t talk much. Mostly listened, tried to fight her prejudices (against… guys who wear hats, apparently?). Bill was… interesting. Like with Ash, she couldn’t tell what was real with him. But he seemed to know a ton about finding the hatch, so she didn’t mind loitering while he drew out rough maps of their trial arenas on the ground, and talked about _the call_ it made, and… well, it gave her another click, so it must have worked. Another skill learned. 

Claudette gave her lessons in botany and some emergency medical advice, stuff she could use to heal herself if needed. They spent a whole day making salves and tinctures and replacement supplies to refill medkits in the storeroom. The rest of camp may have appreciated their efforts, but Sam was sick of the smell of the herbs before they’d even finished one batch. Not to mention every time they went to the clearing to pick them, she felt that uneasy reminder about her theory of shared ground. When she went with Jake, too, which was part of her new post-sacrifice routine. 

The clearing was… 

It was like a siren call. 

Sam still liked to go to the orchard to think. She’d found Kate there a few times, so Jake had been right about her being a regular, but that was during the day. At night, survivors rarely entered any part of the forest. More than once her feet had carried her to the edge of the clearing, staring at the point where the fog broke. Clutching her flashlight. Listening to the whispers. Keeping three feet back.

She never touched the fog. She knew better than that, now. 

Except for once. 

She’d spent almost the whole night there, once, after a sacrifice. 

* * *

She’d gone straight from the fog to her bed, fallen asleep for a bit, then woken up and Zarina was already out. So she went to the forest. 

Wrapped in her blanket (which, to be honest, was probably a security blanket at this point), Sam sat at the edge of the clearing, dead-eyed. But those layers of apathy stifled her fear, too. And probably her common sense. 

She just sat. Cross-legged. Watching the fog drift in stagnant air. No figures. She wouldn’t see them, real or imaginary, unless she touched it, she knew that. 

She leaned forward until her face was inches away, blowing at it softly, creating the tiniest current in the air, stirring the mist and watching it swirl with a detached observation. 

Tempting fate, she tried breathing it in from beyond the boundary line. It wouldn’t cross. 

Sam wasn’t sure how long she just stared at the line, the unintelligible hoarse whispers filling her head. Could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been hours. She felt on the edge of sleep either way.

It wasn’t like the last time she’d been this close. No fresh fear to grab hold of and amplify. No one’s breath on her neck. Did she miss it?

She pulled away and rolled onto her back. Any other time she might care about the dirt. Not after a sacrifice. Sam cared about very little after a sacrifice. 

Laying on the ground, staring at the sky, she tilted her head back to look at the space above the clearing, that strange light. The ghost of a campfire, she was almost sure of it.

She slung an arm over her eyes. She’d have to tell someone about that some day.

Her breath was even. Eyes glassy. Mouth glued shut. The same every time, now: the mandatory period of apathy. There were times she tried to fight it, or at least shorten it, but usually she was just exhausted. She’d never been good at quick recoveries. Others might be able to bounce back after having their souls gouged out - either strong-willed or just experienced - but she couldn’t. Never could. Her whole life had to reset to make her okay again. Maybe it was why she could rarely shake Rebirth. It was too accurate, too much of who she was. 

Sam could tell the fog was trying to scare her. Or, as much as a passively terrifying meteorological effect could. The vibes. Such vibes. 

She breathed out. No good. It couldn’t get to her now, when there was nothing left to get. 

It might have been some deep-rooted curiosity, or maybe fearlessness, hidden under all that nothing. It was probably spite: so essential to her being that it couldn’t be cut out.

She slid her arm back behind her, her hand sliding along the dirt, bits and pieces rolling into her sleeve. No fear. No nothing. 

Her fingers passed the barrier. 

The lullaby, the heartbeat. She expected them this time. She felt the physical effects of fear, but couldn’t bring herself to care. Goosebumps, clamminess. The wailing whispers. She had her whole hand in it, making no move to retreat. She reached back further, until it swirled halfway up her forearm. Her hand stayed. Let it happen. 

There were vibrations in the ground. Subtle, not close. The wails were just in her head. She knew they were just in her head. 

Flickers of horror flashed on her eyelids and it _did_ make her breath hitch for a moment. But she’d known it would come, and exactly what to expect. 

_Horror conditioning._ _Do it long enough you’ll become immune._

See, _that_ was a useful thought for once. 

Her body still shook slightly, even if her mind wasn’t in it. Heartbeat loud, lullaby haunting. Her name was Anna, she’d split Sam’s skull open two nights ago. And Sam had come back. She always came back. _They_ couldn’t make it stick, either, no matter how hard they tried. Death hated her, kept returning her.

 _I am the worst gift you can get._ For the first time all night, she smiled to herself. _You cannot kill me in a way that matters._ And oh how spite could soothe a broken mind.

 _My lullaby now._ It was kind of nice. And she was very tired. _Fuck every one of your nightmares. This is mine now._ Exhaustion could take her. It already was taking her. She’d tune out the images and the noise, and the vibrations on the ground. Her own little act of disobedience, crossing the line. A reminder she was still fighting. 

She was very nearly unconscious. 

Noises started to wash away. The whispers fell on deaf ears.

Something nudged at her hand until it was back on her side of the line. The heartbeat faded, but Sam was already asleep. 

Jake woke her in the morning. He never mentioned it again. Neither did she.

* * *

She _did_ spend time in the clearing during the days, though. The rocks offered her something else to climb on, and one of the stumps was big and hollow and usually had _something_ in it (even if sometimes it was just a bit of twine caught on a splinter, these things were _apparently_ useful to somebody in camp, even if Sam never quite understood how). She’d go every day, or every other day, and poke around, swishing her foot back and forth in the long grass at the edge of the meadow, looking for whatever had tangled itself in there the night before. Managed to pick up a fresh flashlight that way, after hers died the first time she brought it to a trial (though another day she’d nearly stepped on a replacement filament for it, so that was always a risk). 

No more of her wardrobe from home showed up in the _clearing_ , but she _was_ given (or whatever the right term for it was… pity-gifted?) more things to wear. A few things had shown up around camp after particularly good trials. Her good pair of sneakers, one morning. Shirt, shorts. And another outfit that she had snorted at as soon as she’d seen it. 

* * *

“Brand new? Everything I’ve gotten was already part of my wardrobe,” Zarina mused, considering the neat little bundle. 

“Oh, no, these were.” Sam had a grim smile. “Just never wore them. You know when your parents give you workout clothes for a gym you never go to? Yeah, it’s that.” 

‘ _Exercise is good for you,’ ‘you need to get out more,’ ‘it will make you feel better.’_ All of the same advice. She’d been on her feet all day for work, the only times she ever went to the gym were when her parents insisted on dropping her off despite being perfectly able to drive herself. And even then, she’d swim rather than use the _gym_ gym. But it was all part of the ‘we’re helping you recover’ pushback after dropping out, after her attempt, her institutionalization. Throw some money at it.

The yoga pants weren’t too bad, she might wear those, they were black at least, even with the meshy bits. A scarlet sports bra, though? She’d wear it, but only under the shirts she already had. There was no way she’d go into a trial wearing _target-colored_ clothes, with that much bare skin. Just like the pale denim shorts she’d gotten: it wasn’t practical. Besides, she was still limiting herself to her jacket and the one other shirt she’d received so far, which was (thankfully) a long-sleeved darkly green flannel that worked exceptionally well in some trial arenas. 

“And these?” Zarina sounded incredibly amused. 

Sam refolded the pants and looked to Zarina, who was holding up one of two rainbow-striped sweatbands. Sam cringed. “Oh Jesus…” When pride wear was used to sell a concept. “More of the same.” It had theoretically been a gesture that affirmed her identity and showed their loving support regardless of her sexuality. Instead, it was another tool to nudge her towards doing what they wanted.

It was hard to think of things that way now, though. She would give anything to be home with her parents again. If they’d known she’d made another attempt, they probably would’ve lightened up on the pressure again. And she knew they loved her. They tried. They just couldn’t understand how loud her head could be sometimes, how deep and dark a spiral could go. But that was entirely the fault of her own issues, her own brain chemicals refusing to cooperate. They'd tried. 

“I think they’re cute,” Zarina teased. “You should show them to Kate.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. Zarina raised two in return, smirking. Sam’s face heated. “I’m not— that’s— it’s not like that.” She took the wristband back from her bunkmate, rolling her eyes despite the blush. 

Did she have a crush on Kate? …Maybe a tiny bit. But it was mostly because Kate was just _nice._ And she was like that to everyone, not just Sam. And Kate was cute, yes. Very attractive. But Kate was also a country pop princess, who she never would’ve been able to stand in the real world. Here was different, here Sam needed that eternal light for support. But it wasn’t going to happen. 

“Who knows, she might be interested. She hasn’t had any relationship with anyone here, at least as long as I’ve been here, but I don’t know—”

“Please stop.” Sam’s ears were burning and she tried not to groan. “It’s really— I’m serious, it’s not like that.” And if it were, it still wouldn’t be her business. And Kate was more of the _painfully straight ally_ type. She had affectionate platonic contact with everyone in camp. Except Sam, but that was Sam’s boundaries, not Kate’s. She’d definitely twitched when Kate put a hand over hers before; she hadn’t tried for a hug or anything. 

…Sam hadn’t been hugged in ages. And the closest she got these days was people helping her off of meat hooks. Which just… Not the same, really. Very glaringly different. Everyone in camp had learned to keep their distance. Or if they hadn’t, Sam was used to backing up to give herself space. The closest she’d gotten to someone… 

Sam swallowed. She’d be lying if she said she’d forgotten about the bizarre one-on-one trial with Legion. The mere thought of him kneeling over her, tracing patterns on her skin, made her shiver. 

_Because he killed you. Remember that part? Where he killed you? Remember before that, with all the stabbing? Maybe reconsider your priorities here._

Yeah. She didn’t want to think about that. 

“You might want to wear them anyway,” Zarina shrugged, though she’d given up the teasing. Sam shot her a skeptical look, and Zarina glanced at Sam’s hands. She hesitated a moment before adding, casually, “You wear long sleeves a lot.”

Well fuck, just had to punch her in the gut like that, didn’t she? 

Sam quickly averted her eyes. She was right, obviously. And it might be nice to get some… grey… on her… 

Yeah, without sun, there wasn’t really a way to explain that. Fresh air on her skin? How fresh could it be? But the point still stood. It would be suspicious, anyway, if she didn’t at least make an appearance for other survivors. New things were always good; change, in a stagnant world. And now she could swim, too. She’d look like an idiot, wearing pride bands all the time, and anyone who had assumed she was straight might ask some blunt questions, but she missed rolling her sleeves up. 

When she’d arrived to run the obstacle course in her new workout gear, she’d been greeted by a whistle from Meg, and a comment about how now she could finally take training seriously from David. Good to know they were all _so supportive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I uh… I'm sorry I quoted a tumblr shitpost 😂)
> 
> Anyway, a nice li'l time skip for ya. Next chapter has some hmmm interesting moments. 
> 
> As always, looking for thoughts on the story, drop a comment! ^^
> 
> (Also, apologies to the purists, but I just spent about 8 hours trying to do research for another trial chapter… idk if I can do this, y'all 😅 When I have the plot for the chapter but have no idea what perks to run, I'm just hhh cause I want to write, but can't. So I might just stop paying attention to that stuff xD Again, apologies. I promise the plot parts will make up for it ^^ )


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> listening

True to his word, Jake was teaching her how to use a sling. Which, despite what Sam had thought, was _not_ the same as a slingshot. 

“This is miserable and I hate it,” Sam deadpanned after more than an hour of complete failure, picking up the last of her missed shots several feet ahead of the rock structure she’d been aiming at. 

“You’re not launching it into the ground anymore,” Jake shrugged. “Or shooting into the trees. That’s improvement.” 

“I thought we learned skills faster here. Isn’t time some flavor of weird?” She tied and retied the flannel around her waist, kicking at the ground of the clearing. “Why is my arm sore? Running doesn’t hurt like this.”

“Because you were out of shape before you came here and running is a skill essential to the trials.” 

Sam blew a sort of raspberry as she sighed, sitting on the edge of the shortest of the petrified stumps. “Pulling no punches, I see,” she grumbled. She’d actually been pleasantly surprised when she’d pulled on her workout gear for the first time; she’d thought it had fit really well. Then again, they didn’t have a full-length mirror here, so maybe it was just her not actually knowing what she looked like. Which was probably better for her self-esteem in the long run. And, admittedly, it wasn’t like she’d gone to the gym, before: too busy wallowing in her free time. So he may be right about that. 

“And learning does come faster, yeah. But those are trial skills, this is for fun.” Jake stood close, but not too close, swinging his own empty sling around one finger. He always gave her space. She appreciated that. “Where’s your loop?”

She held out her hand, palm up, wiggling her fingers. “I think the ring finger is working better than before, but I still suck.”

“You never threw a baseball?”

“I tried softball for like two weeks one summer.” Sam leaned back, stretching her neck as she put one foot up on her stump and bounced the other. 

“Ah. So you _are_ gay.” 

She jerked back. “What?” Why the hell, “No! Why—?” Right, sweatbands. “I’m bi, Jesus, why do people just assume the rainbow is only for gays and lesbians, fuckin’ Christ.” She tried to scratch at the wood with one of the stones she’d picked back up, but it wasn’t exactly sharp. “Homophobic.”

He let out a short laugh. Sam wondered what the hell that was supposed to mean. Some variety of queer as well, maybe? He never really talked about himself. Also, he never really laughed that often. Broody boy was broody a lot, especially in the more populated quarters of the camp. Then again, so was she. 

“The softball was at summer camp, dipshit.” She was kinda used to wearing the wristbands at this point. Days always felt so long, even though she objectively knew they weren’t. Or it seemed like they weren’t. People had watches, they still told time. You could get used to a lot in a few days, and she’d been here… 

How long had she been here? Must’ve been a couple weeks. A month? Two? No, less than two. Less than _one?_ There was a whole wall on one end of the cabin, covered in hash marks. Someone was tallying the days, or at least some days, but she’d never counted. Enough to fill the majority of a wall that was easily 20 feet wide. She’d never asked who’d started it, just knew that Bill had taken charge of it since he’d arrived. Every dusk he’d carve another notch. 

“So you need to work on aim, so what? Got the time.”

Sam groaned. She was comfortable enough with Jake to whine a little. He rarely if ever validated it. She didn’t mind, it was usually petty stuff, anyway. “When I come out of this I’m gonna be so fuckin’ talented.”

Neither of them added anything to that. They both knew it wasn’t happening any time soon. Chances were very _very_ slim. Infinitesimal. One might even say nonexistent. 

She broke the moment of awkward silence. “Can’t I try something else? Archery? Knife throwing?”

“Got a thing for knives or something?”

_Ahaha, no, you don’t answer that._

She ignored the thoughts taunting her. “No.” Which… might have been true? “Why?”

He gestured to her bare arms. “It’s kinda big.”

The tattoo, right. Yeah. “Just a… personal thing.”

He nodded. Never pushed the issue on personal stuff. One of the reasons the gay comment had taken her by surprise. 

Personal thing… yeah. Part of her minor tattoo addiction. Which was too recent in her life to have really covered much, but she had had plans. Any time she needed to hurt, she’d get a tattoo. She had, what, 12 now? Over the course of… two years? Less, she’d gotten her first a few months before turning 19. They were all black and grey, nothing massive, some quite small. It was a very artistic form of self-harm, and for that, a knife had felt… poetically appropriate. Now, though…

 _“Almost identical, don’t you think?”_

Fuckin’ hell. She ignored the itch at the back of her mind. It had been ages. It had been so long since they’d had a trial together, there was no reason to be thinking of him. She must’ve had at least fifteen trials since then. There were very few killers left that she _hadn’t_ faced, maybe four or five, and yet not another Legion. 

“No throwing knives,” Jake shrugged. “If I did, sure. A hunting knife isn’t quite the same.”

Right. Sure. 

“Another go?”

Sam nodded, but they were interrupted as someone came through at the entrance to the clearing, waving to Jake. 

Steve. A little too far off to speak at a regular volume, he raised his voice to call to them. “I caught a rabbit!” Aww, he sounded so excited. (Sam was in an upswing on the hope thing lately, high off of three whole escapes in a row, even if one had been a rush for the hatch.) “I need help with the next part!”

Jake turned back to her. “Keep practicing. Try to clear your mind. Focusing on your breath might help, and feel for the right release point.” 

What, like she hadn’t been? Sam waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks. Go… skin a rabbit, I guess.” Eh. Not something she wanted to think about, even if she knew she should probably do the trapping and the dressing and the whole _dead animal_ thing at some point. It couldn’t hurt to know more. And there wasn’t much else to do. God, she missed TV. And books. And all the cheesy things about nature she usually only admitted to herself. Birdsong, sunlight, crisp breezes. Flowers. Stars.

Once Jake left her alone she kicked her foot a bit, playing with the knot of her sling, then sighed and stood up, reloading the pockets of her shorts with stones. More of this, then. 

She… _sort of_ improved. Not very consistently, but there were a couple cracks of stone on stone that were very satisfying, on the edges of the chalk circle she was going for, and some that weren’t quite as powerful. A lot of stones hit short, or wide, or long. Aiming was hard when she was swinging the thing so much. She tried to do the focus bit. 

Tapping into the skill Bill had taught her, she tried listening, like she might for the hatch. That didn’t work. There was no hatch here, she probably could’ve known that. But she pivoted the idea and tried thinking about her own breath, instead. Breath and pulse. Focus in, cut everything else out. Swing and release. Miss. Try again. Miss. 

_Really great at this new skill. Getting better every minute. Great use of your time._

Sam ignored that part of her. Couldn’t improve if she didn’t try. 

_Oh the cliche, that’s just painful._

Shut up. Breath and pulse. The beat of her heart. Swing and release. Finally there was a satisfying crack as she hit her target (still off center, and the target was pretty big, but it was something). 

_Fuck right off._

Her focus faded away as she realized she’d run out of stones. Collection time, then. 

She was in the middle of gathering up her ammunition that had flown well over her target (enthusiasm was a plus, right?) when she almost stepped on something in the grass. 

Well, not _almost_ , no; she _did_ step on something, just not enough to break it. She bent down. 

It was… a cassette tape? That felt so incredibly out of place, not just in the middle of a bunch of grass (though, that too), but in this place where they were so disconnected from the real world. 

Sam turned it over in her hands, examining. It wasn’t in great shape, but could probably still work if they had a tape player. Which they might, actually, there was all kinds of weird stuff in the storeroom, but she’d never heard anyone playing any tapes. It wasn’t even like they needed to preserve battery, either; batteries didn’t run down on this side of the trials (unfortunately, they did _during_ trials, which Sam had learned at a very bad time). 

There was nothing written on the label, just some scratchy lines that—

Sam stiffened. They looked eerily familiar, now that she thought about it. An awful lot like the pincers that clawed and grabbed at every bit of hope the survivors could muster, trial after trial. She frowned. 

Practice was over for the day. 

She’d have to bring the tape back to camp, ask someone about it. 

She still wanted to put all the sling stones back in a pile, though. She’d want to find them again when the time came for more practice, and she didn’t particularly feel like carrying around pockets full of rocks. She was heading back toward the rock she’d been aiming at, and the scattered stumps and stones ahead of it, when she saw something broken off of the big hollow stump. Splintered off? It was too far away to tell, but something was sticking out at an angle. 

It only took a few steps closer for her to realize what it was and stop stock still. 

A knife.

Her eyes darted around for movement, but if someone had been here they were already gone. No one behind her, no one in front, unless they were crouched in the shelter of the rock. Sam swallowed hard. It was Jake’s. Or— Bill had a knife. _Plenty_ of survivors had knives, they weren’t unheard of, just impossible to bring into trials, but they existed. So she hadn’t seen it before she’d come to this side of the rocks; she probably wasn’t paying attention. 

She gave the rocks a wide berth, eyes fixed on them as she came around, but no one there, either. How had it gotten there?

Chewing at her lip, Sam let out a determined breath before rounding the stump and reaching for the knife, prying it out with some difficulty. 

Her heart leapt to her throat as she stared at the blade in her hand, breath heavy, trying to keep herself steady. She would’ve known the blade before she came here, a similar silhouette inked onto her skin, but she knew it intimately now. 

Was that breath on the back of her neck? She was imagining things. But she didn’t want to turn around. 

_Why not?_

There was no good reason why not. Fear, probably. Even if she was the one holding the weapon. 

Sam tightened her grip on the handle. It wasn’t warm. It couldn’t be, she’d left it there, it had been there too long, that one _had_ to be her mind playing tricks on her. 

It had been embedded in the wood of the stump. The angle of penetration made it very clear which direction it had been thrown from. The Deep Forest. 

_Of course. Where else? Spooky woods is spooky, you knew this. They can’t come here during the day._

She’d put her hand in at night. What was to stop them from doing the same?

_If they could come here to kill you, they would’ve done it long before now. This place has been here for ages. Just check. Just turn around._

But what if it wasn’t to kill them?

_…You’re messed up, you know that?_

It was just a theory. It was obviously wrong. 

_Turn around. Check. Do it. Just do it, just turn around and check, it’s one motion, all you have to do is look, and you won’t do it._

In a second. 

_Do it. Do it._

In a second, Christ. 

_You want him to be there. You do, that’s why you’re not looking._

Fuck. 

_You’re fucking insane. Knives, now?_ **_Knives?!_ ** _What happened to tattoos being your weapon of choice? You want him cutting you open, now?_

Definitely not. No. No cutting. He hadn’t cut, he—

_He doesn’t have to break skin._

Sam wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing there, arguing with herself, unable to move. Trying not to replay that day and failing in miserable flashes that made her skin crawl in too many ways, completely inconsistent. Morbid curiosity. 

_One fucking pretty boy and that’s all it took?_

She could justify this. This was just another example of her inclination towards things that would hurt her. Another way to kill herself, that’s all.

 _…Right._

…

Was it bad that having him slit her wrists had been the closest she’d felt to someone in years?

 _YES._ _THAT IS BAD. DO NOT THINK THAT, WE DON’T THINK THAT, YOU DIDN’T THINK THAT, THAT DIDN’T_ —

Just a tone. Blue screen, flatline. Cutting all thoughts off. Humming in her skull as she pushed off any more argument. No more. 

She stabbed the knife back into the wood.

No more.

She left the clearing. 

* * *

“Yeah. We have some tapes. You haven’t heard the tapes?”

Sam tried to push off the feeling still crawling over her skin, focusing on Ace’s words. He was a little less unlikeable, now. He’d been essential to saving her ass in two separate trials, so… couldn’t exactly hold a grudge. Just cause he dressed like a divorced dad in Vegas. 

“There are tapes?”

He took the one she was holding out to him. “I think we’ve seen this before. Might be doubles.” Tapping the tape on their table for a second (she’d really prefer he didn’t, it was in bad enough shape as it was), he handed it back. “Talk to Adam. He keeps recordings.” 

* * *

Turned out, Adam kept a variety of recordings. A stack of yellowed papers and a box of cassettes, kept in a well-rusted filing cabinet in the storeroom before he set them out on the room’s prep table. 

“Ah. Yes, we’ve seen that one before.” He plucked the tape from her hands. “Don’t listen to it.” 

She hadn’t been aware they could, but okay. “What is it?”

“That one? It belongs to the Entity. Listening to it doesn’t help any of us. It only corrupts the mind. The best we can do is keep it with the rest to prevent the killers from having them.”

Sam was peering into the box of cassettes curiously, when Adam went on.

“We have tapes you _do_ need to listen to. You should have listened to them earlier.” Oh? “The Lost Tapes.”

Another term that sounded capitalized. (Also: patently untrue? If they had them, they certainly weren’t lost.) “…And those are…?”

“They impart skills.”

What? Seriously? That was possible? “How?”

“We’re not sure. Most of the tapes are incoherent, there are very few words audible. They’ve been here a very long time - some as long as anyone can remember - and they’re one of the few resources we have for escaping the killers.”

How could they help if they were incoherent? How did an incoherent recording teach a skill? And— “How do I listen to them?” 

Adam turned around for the filing cabinet again, struggling with the second drawer before it opened with a screech of metal on metal that made Sam wince. He dropped the cassette she’d given him into the drawer, and there was a clatter of plastic on plastic. Probably more tapes. Then he pulled out a tape recorder that seemed to be from the 70s, or maybe 80s. Old. He set the recorder in the box, and pushed it in her direction. 

“Take them. Each is one hour long, 30 minutes on each side. At times, it may not seem like you’re hearing anything, but you have to listen the whole way through. Some are labeled, others aren’t. We don’t know all of their names.”

For some reason, that sent a nervous itch over her skin.

“You should get listening before trials tonight. New skills may come in handy.” 

Sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working on another very long chapter that may need to be cut down. But before that, we get to meet someone new :3
> 
> Also: Hey! The Lost Tapes! There's so little lore about the Lost Tapes! Thought I should go ahead and fill in how all those 'everyone' perks can be imparted. 
> 
> And well well well, if someone isn't being sneaky. 😏  
> As always, gimme your thots in the comments. ^^


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> unwilling survivor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (unrelated to anything, I've been trying to fix my sleep schedule to wake up earlier, so instead of posting at 4am when I went to sleep, I've been posting later in the morning. that may gradually shift to later in the day, so just a heads up if things seem late)
> 
> Anyway, we finally get to see the other half of this perk, and why no one would ever want it. xD

Sam only got through one tape before it was time for trials— someone named Dylan. Adam had been right: hardly any of it was intelligible. A lot of static, a lot of single disconnected syllables; a lot of dead air and damaged tape. Whispers, too. Distorted as they played through the speakers. 

She’d sat in the lean-to, staring at the tape for a full fucking hour and she could only hear two sentences. _Two._ On an hour-long tape. The rest of the time she’d just been thoroughly uncomfortable, apart from a brief distant noise at the end of side two that she’d had to turn the volume all the way up to hear. It sounded like a harmonica. Well away from the recorder, hardly audible at all. Odd. It reminded her of Kate. 

So: the Lost Tapes. The survivors that came before. It only strengthened her theory about the clearing. And what had been on those papers Adam had? He seemed to be the file clerk or lore keeper or whatever it was around here. He’d been a teacher, right? Made sense he might take an interest in studying. Sam could only assume Zarina was familiar with the tapes and documents as well, given her interests. 

There was cool moist air at her ankles. 

_Shit._

Trial time. Fuck, she should change, shit, she’d been distracted with the tapes. Sam stepped behind the curtain they’d lodged between logs of the roof and quickly pulled on the dark flannel and changed into her jeans, slipping feet into her sneakers to save time doing up the laces of her boots. 

Items? She had her flashlight again, and a medkit— might want to bring the medkit, maybe? Who was going with her? She wasn’t at the fire like most of them were, she couldn’t check who was making offerings. Medkit it was. Did she have any kind of offering to make? A few trinkets from the clearing that Jake had encouraged her to keep. None of them made much sense. Why bother, really. 

The clammy air rose to her knees, then her thighs. 

Skills. _Shit, quick, pick skills fuck fuck fuck._ She was so bad at this part. 

Too late, anyway. 

* * *

It was a new location for her - some kind of concrete maze of rooms and corridors, full of barrels and cages and crates - but it had climbable surfaces and she’d been doing pretty well with that strategy in her trials, as people grew used to a new method of moving and hiding. (Doing pretty well except when she didn’t. And getting pulled off the edge of something on her way up or down was pretty much a death sentence - or at least an injury sentence - without a flashlight for help.) 

As always with a new location these days, Sam started with exploration. As she moved she tried to feel for what kind of skills she had going on. 

Quick and Quiet, okay. That was good, Meg’s stealth lessons had been a go-to anytime she wanted to climb without getting heard. And Feather Fall. She was used to the feel of that, that was comfortable, too. Then there was the unnamed skill that stuck on her like a fucking tick. Less reliable, though in the early part of the trial it usually gave her that advantage with getting away from the killer. Had to have a medkit on her, to heal up between hits just in case. Didn’t want to lay dying somewhere, or she’d have to… 

Oh. No Rebirth. Ah. And that was new, in its place. _Lightweight._ That was how the tape had been labeled. One set of handwriting had written _Dylan,_ another had added _Lightweight._ (As much as she wanted to think it was a joke about the guy getting drunk off his ass, she highly doubted it.) She could kind of feel it, a little less resistance against the ground. Like when she fell. That same sort of lightness, good, that was probably… something useful. She’d have to ask. Others had worked out a lot of the kinks and details of their skills; undoubtedly someone had the specifics of this weird audio-transmittable perk. 

She passed a sign for stairs, eyeing it warily. Probably a good idea. But these were so obviously labeled, was there a side stairwell, maybe? She’d keep going and look for something less obvious, something sneakier. 

_Oh Jesus._

That was a pig corpse hanging from the ceiling. That was pretty fuckin’ gross, but at least it was a cooler. No stench of rotting meat. 

_…There’s going to be rotting meat, isn’t there. Of course there_ —

Ah. No, that was… That was a human corpse. That was a human corpse, that she was going to have to ignore right now. 

_Keep moving. They’re not you, that’s a good thing, keep it that way._

It’s not like she hadn’t seen people more mangled. She'd witnessed a mori from afar. But those people always came back. They all came back. 

She kept moving. So many walls that looked identical. She was fucked for navigation here, that was for sure. 

And there was the heartbeat. 

Sam looked around, but couldn’t spot any red stain. Did they get rid of it? And keep the heartbeat? She still wasn’t 100% on what was possible here. Either way, since the heartbeat was going she wanted to walk, not run, and try to hide as best as possible. 

A generator in the distance sputtered. The heartbeat sped up. But that didn’t make any— ah. Upstairs. In that case, she’d been right to avoid the stairway, because that was definitely the way down. Good, if it forced one route, she’d at least know where the killer was coming from. It would probably be trapped, if they were dealing with the Trapper. Or the Hag. But that was fine, she’d have to take precautions but—

…Goddamn it. Another sign for a stairway. So not the only way down, and not the only _well-marked_ way, either. 

But maybe that was a positive: higher ground was probably better, anyway, probably less claustrophobic, maybe higher ceilings, higher structures to climb that would get her out of immediate view. She just needed to pick a staircase. 

The heartbeat slowed, then sped up again. 

_Shit._

She could hear running footsteps, so she ran, too, glancing behind her to see who else was—

Ah fuck. Sam nearly tripped over her feet, spotting another masked killer, but it made sense. Legion ran fast. It wasn’t Frank, though. She faced forward again, heading for a turn with a pallet, only registering the image once she’d already looked away. 

Pink hair. Susie. _Pinkie Pie,_ as Min called her (and Ace, and Ash— seriously, Sam kinda felt bad for the girl for that). Not a cute kid at the moment, though. A frenzied killer. 

Sam dropped the pallet. _Shit,_ too early. She had a slight lead, but not much, and Susie was sliding over the pallet easily, just like the survivors did. 

Sam didn’t get far before that now-familiar frenzied strike pierced her back, and she relocated. 

Oh fuckin’— thank god. The room she’d ended up in was high-ceilinged. Top floor. Sam walked to cover and started mending. It took a second for her to be able to patch herself up, part of that backhanded aftereffect of the relocation. Her medkit was stuck, but that was the standard for this, she’d figured that out. However long of not being able to heal properly after relocation. 

Once she could, she popped the kit open. Shit, could’ve used Claudette’s skills. She’d have to make due with a well-stocked kit, even if it wasn’t quite as speedy as it could be. She was mid-healing when the first hook of the trial came. The aura was well away. As was usually the case, when she relocated. 

But not long after, the chime came for the first generator, so someone must be doing something right. Toolboxes? Teaming up?

Healing done. Good. All back to normal. Now it was time to try climbing these bad boys and see if there was an advantage to be had. Frank couldn’t throw, so she could assume Susie didn’t either. Great, no hatchets. But she’d bet Legion was good at climbing. She only had the one time to observe, and she hadn’t even thought of evaluating his speed, then, but he was a quick motherfucker.

Sam grabbed at a railing, stuck her foot in a handy dandy corner angle, and gradually pulled herself up onto the pallet rack. Nice. Nice and wide, flat enough she could probably lay on her belly and be invisible to whoever was on the ground. She… wouldn’t be super useful to the team… but they seemed to be doing just fine without her help. No more aura on a hook. 

She had a second to think. 

Susie wasn’t what she’d expected. When Jeff had talked about her as a sweet girl, pink hair, multicolor braces, he’d said she was nice to him. Legion in frenzy was not nice. And her mask was kinda creepy. How the hell did she see out of it? It looked almost solid, and sewn back together where it wasn’t solid. That could not be practical. 

**_Two._ **

Well holy shit, they were doing—

Fuck, heartbeat. Sam stayed flat and hoped she wasn’t visible. 

It was when the pallet rack began to rattle slightly as a body climbed up the side that Sam remembered what Zarina had said. _“They seem to zero in on uninjured survivors.”_ Some kind of Entity-gifted intuition. Whatever it was, it was not good for Sam ‘hide me forever, I never want to be found’ Reid. 

She scrambled onto her knees and dropped off the opposite side of the rack just in time to miss a strike at her ankles, running as fast as she could manage as a frustrated growl echoed behind her. Could really use a boost right now. God, how the hell did they just not have what they’d trained on? She’d run so much that day with Meg, why couldn’t she just keep that ability?

But no, she was limited. Though she certainly felt lighter on her feet thanks to her ol’ pal Dylan. Not faster, but lighter. Whatever that meant, in this place. 

The growl had been like what she’d heard when Frank had come out of his frenzy. Zarina had mentioned that, too. And that should mean Sam wasn’t traceable anymore. She made a sharp turn as soon as she was able, slowing and crouching and listening. 

There was the sound of repair work nearby. If they’d been working that whole time, Legion would know where they were, right? Unless they were already injured. 

Sam glanced down at her medkit. She had at least one more injury’s worth of supplies. Maybe two if she could slap the gel pad on correctly without fucking it up. But if Legion could find her with every frenzy, she’d need that medkit to heal up. She’d taken her first relocation, she should have another. Maybe. She’d had some trials where nothing had happened at all. It was frustratingly inconsistent. A pretty useless ability, except when it wasn’t. 

Another scream. The aura was on the lower floor, not too far away. Susie must’ve run down somewhere. 

She really was a kid, wasn’t she? Not as young as Jeff had made her out to be, but she must be around Frank’s age, right? Younger, probably, based on how Jeff had talked. So younger than Frank, who was… um… Hell, she had no idea. College aged, she’d guess. Didn’t give off a college graduate air, but then again, who was she to judge? She’d dropped out before the first semester was over. She’d dropped out in under two months. 

And she’d dropped out because she’d tried to kill herself and ended up committed to a psychiatric ward, terrified out of her mind by people who talked to her like an adult when she was still only 18 and had no idea what was going on. 

Trying to hold her own instead of admit her failings to her parents, trying to hold out for the 72 hours, and hyperventilating and sobbing when they wouldn’t let her sign herself out…

God that was miserable. 

Sam was frozen, caught up in painful memories. She didn’t even hear the heartbeat until it was close again. 

She was never going back to somewhere like that. She didn’t want their help, if they wouldn’t listen to her. She’d live her life or die trying, but she wouldn’t be committed again. Never again. 

Her shoulder took the blow this time. Sam hadn’t even run, still crouched in her hiding spot as the frenzied killer found her. Out of it. And now relocated.

 _Get your fucking head in the game._

But Susie was probably her age from then, wasn’t she? Must be. Somewhere around there. It felt like so long ago, even if it was only a couple years.

_Focus. Please. Heal._

Yeah, yeah, she could do that. Mend first. Climb. Wait for her medkit to unlock. Heal. Hide. 

That was the pattern. Climbing made it easier to escape once Susie was on her, as long as she didn’t jump down too early, and as long as Susie continued to miss her strikes. One time Susie hadn’t bothered to lunge, didn’t break frenzy right away, and Sam was _still_ able to escape, amazingly, thanks to some careful routes. And then, of course, one time she still didn’t make it. 

Sam was frowning, using her last bandage while she waited on top of a wire cage, ready to drop and run when needed. No more heals left. She’d need to search for another kit or find a teammate next time. She had seen her teammates - specifically, Laurie, Nancy, and Dwight. Sam had observed a chase or two, keeping out of sight as long as possible. Dwight and Nancy both had toolboxes with them, which may have explained why they only needed one more generator.

She knew where the exit gates were. And if she got hit at one, and her relocation worked, it should send her closer to the other one. A win-win. She just had to not die before they got the last generator. Easy. She’d made it out of plenty of trials, now. More thanks to her teammates than herself, but that was just how it was sometimes. She still did her part. Usually. …Maybe not so much, this time. But she’d been distracted, caught in memories, and frenzy was hard for her to counter, and her strategy of hiding on top of tall places was working so she'd stuck to it. 

**_Five._ **

And there it was. Time to head to the exit. 

Sam could hear the heartbeat of the chase on the lower floor. It ended with a scream and that itch of an aura behind her as Sam got to the exit bay, where Dwight was working on the switch, Laurie beside him.

“Oh, _now_ we see you,” Laurie frowned. “Where the hell were you, Sam?”

“I was— I needed to heal, so I was hiding.” Which was… sometimes true. 

“Hiding isn’t helping. You were useless.”

“You guys got them done super fast, you didn’t—”

“Laurie, go get Nancy.”

Laurie turned her irritation on Dwight, full-on insulted. 

“Laurie, finish opening the gate. I’ll go get Nancy.”

That was apparently more to her taste. Laurie swapped out with Dwight, still shooting Sam an irritable look as Dwight sprinted in the direction of the hook. 

Sam could hear the heartbeat approaching. And she’d bet Legion was more interested in stopping them from making it out the exit than in stopping Dwight. She bounced on her toes nervously, eyeing the way they’d come. And there she was. Pink hair, long sweatshirt, running at them like a woman possessed. 

The gate was open. Sam went to run in after Laurie, but—

Her ears rang. Ow, what the fuck. And then, _knife ow._ And she was relocated again. Four in one trial? It was unprecedented. 

She’d been right about getting sent closer to the other exit, though. Sam focused on mending the gash on her ribs as Nancy and Dwight showed up, aiming for the gate. 

There was a lot of distance between them and Susie. Time enough to open the gate.

She went to run out with the rest of her teammates. The ringing came back. It was painful, shooting straight to her eardrums, making her grit her teeth with pain. The worst she’d had all trial. And she— she couldn’t get out the fucking exit. 

This wasn’t some kind of wall, right? There was nothing there! Dwight was waiting on the other side, watching her. 

“What’s up?”

“I—” This didn’t make sense. Was it even possible? “I can’t go through?” That couldn’t be right. That wasn’t a thing in her other trials. Every time she’d escaped with her team, they’d all gone out together. Or, at least, the ones still alive. 

The heartbeat was coming back. 

Sam jammed her shoulder against the air like she was forcing a door open. Nothing. What the fuck. _What the fuck?_ But… but seriously, _what the fuck?!_ The heartbeat was louder, faster, and her anxiety was rising as well. She couldn’t get out? She couldn’t leave? The generators were powered! She had that prompt in her head, it said **exit** , it said—

**_Unwilling Survivor._ **

Sam shrieked at the pain in her back, but she relocated again. Dying, though. Definitely dying. Jesus fuck. Why— why couldn’t—

She swallowed hard, trying to hold back the panic. 

She couldn’t leave. 

She couldn’t _leave._ She was fucking _stuck_ in the trial. 

_Bleeding out, though. Not the worst way to go, all things considered._

Would’ve preferred to make it out. Good things came to those who made it out as a team. 

She could hear the hatch. 

_You’re fucking kidding._ Relocated feet from the hatch? That couldn’t be right. 

It wasn’t. Not quite. The hatch was further than she’d thought, it was just quiet enough to find it. Wherever Susie was, she was taking her time. Maybe she was planning on giving Sam the hatch, anyway. That was fine. She’d crawl. 

She’d drag her broken body to the hatch, and get out, and her team wouldn’t hate her so much. God, Laurie had been pissed. If Sam planned to learn anything from her, it was unfortunately put on hold. _“You were useless.”_ Well that wasn’t anything new. 

Another foot. Almost at the hatch. 

“Fuckin’ finally.” Sam pulled herself over the ledge. 

Only…

Only it didn’t…

She banged her fists down on the air that should be open. She could see down into the echoing dark, she could hear the wind. It _was_ open. 

Just not for her. 

“You’re fucking kidding me.” Her voice was soft, the edge of irritation just surpassing her own anxiety. It wouldn’t let her leave. 

The heartbeat sped up. It felt about right, emotionally. However she felt, it was felt intensely. She just wasn’t sure what that was yet. 

Part of her was pissed. Rightfully so: they’d done the gens, they’d opened the gates, she was _the last survivor_ for fuck’s sake. 

_…No._ _They_ _did the gens. You sat on your ass and hid. You did nothing. You were useless. You didn’t play the game. _

Right. Unwilling. She… was unwilling. 

Fine. She could feel the life draining out of her, anyway. “Guess I’ll _die,_ ” she grumbled, tone biting. “Not like that wasn’t inevitable. Fuck off, I’ll bleed out.” She assumed she was talking to the Entity. The heartbeat had faded again. Just her and the uncooperative hatch. 

She waited. 

Her vision grew dim, limbs heavy, legs unable to move.

 _Fuck off._ Sam closed her eyes, taking her death as a win, in her own way. 

Except…

She counted. She kept counting. The heartbeat came back and she was still counting. Too much time. She should be dead. She _should_ be dead. She should. 

Her throat was dry, a lump the size of a golf ball making it hard to swallow. So they were changing the rules. No peaceful deaths. She sniffed slightly, feeling tears dripping into her ears, and turned her head to wipe her face on her shoulder, unable to move much more than that.

Maybe she could. If she tried. But there was no point. 

No rest. No escape. A prison within a prison. 

And now she felt like an absolute idiot for crying. 

_I’m sorry._ It was a silent plea to the Entity. _Let me leave. Let me die._

Why the constant punishment? Why _bring her to the hatch_ only to refuse to let her go? 

Constant frustration.

Her whole life was always frustration. Nothing ever made sense. She couldn’t handle it, never been able to handle it, it was all _too much_. 

They wouldn’t— _it_ wouldn’t— the thing that ran this place, this hell, this purgatory, it would never let her _quit._ She just wanted to _stop._ She wanted to stop trying, and give herself a break. 

She just wanted a break. 

Not trapped here. She wanted fresh air and clear skies and a world beyond the oppressive grey.

It washed over her again, that thing they never voiced aloud; she was never getting out. The longest-running survivors had been here… years. Maybe a decade, or more. Plucked out of time. Never changing. They didn’t age, they didn’t grow, they didn’t get sick, and _no one ever truly dies._ Stagnant. Trapped in suspended animation from the real world. Doomed like Sisyphus. 

On and on she spiraled, every negative emotion pulled to the fore, all the things she’d thought must have been cleared out by now after all the sacrifices. But she was an endless fount of self hate, when the time was right. Her eyes closed and thoughts buzzed in her head, snapping at her or slogging their way through heavy marsh. 

_Pointless. Useless. Nothing. No one. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.Please.Please.Please.Please.Please._

“Are you okay?” 

A tiny hysterical laugh, weak and breathy, just barely escaped her. Susie. Fucking _Susie._ The killer was the one asking if she was alright. Sam thought even _she_ would’ve left by now. 

Sam wanted to say something. But her lips were trembling, pulled tight as more tears streamed down her face silently. A hoarse croak came from her throat. 

“I thought you were supposed to come back. And you could take the exit, or the hatch. The Collapse didn’t happen, so…” 

She really did sound young, compared to other killers. Muffled under the mask. She sounded sad, too. 

“Frank said you couldn’t bleed out.”

Another frantic laugh. That was— it was so true now. How fucking true. What kind of bitter irony was that.

“So I left, but… and then… Why aren’t you going out the hatch?”

Sam tried to build up her cynicism. Her anger. Tried to have some venom in her, some push back. It might have been easier to fight with Frank. But Susie sounded almost hopeful. Sad and hopeful, like with enough encouragement Sam could just _do the thing_. 

Sam wanted to sound bitter and sharp. 

Instead, her voice broke. 

“It won’t let me.” 

And then she was sobbing. She was sobbing while there was a killer _right there,_ someone whose job it was - and that’s how Frank had put it, _a fucking job_ \- to slaughter her. 

“Aww, honey…” 

It was the first time she’d been hugged in years. _Really_ hugged. Not a casual greeting hug that always made her uncomfortable, not a ‘saying goodbye to relatives’ hug, but a _real hug._

_You’re a fucking idiot. Stop attaching yourself to killers._

But she was still crying and she couldn’t stop and _fuck_ she was glad it was Susie and not someone else. Not Frank. He’d be such a fucking bitch about it. 

_Please GOD consider survivors in this. Please. Your options are not two killers. There is a whole camp of people who could comfort you if you gave them the chance._

That wasn’t the point. She wasn’t— the killers weren’t her _options._ It was all due to unfortunate circumstances.

Susie had pulled her up into a seated position to hug her, but Sam still couldn’t move much more. She just put her arms around the girl and ducked her head and ignored the smell of blood. It felt so good to cry. Not out of pain, but out of loss. Grief. Mourning the life she might have had, or the death, or… something. She needed to mourn the loss. To shake and sob and clutch at somebody, and feel _close_ to somebody, and have someone with their arms around her like they could protect her. 

_So fucked._

No. No, she couldn’t listen to those thoughts anymore. _I don’t care. I know. I just don’t care. Stop hurting me._

A hand was rubbing her back softly. It was what she needed and she _didn’t care_ who it was from. Not right now. Not when futility was just taking her out at the knees. 

It went on a long time. Still warm.

Sam sniffed and cleared her throat, and her eyes stung. 

“Feeling better?”

One last squeeze. Susie squeezed back. Sam let out a short breath. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” She patted Sam’s shoulder. “We get ourselves up and dust ourselves off.”

“I… can’t do that.” She could hardly keep herself upright; standing wasn't an option.

“Oh. Right.” There was a pause, and Sam thought she could hear the girl’s blush. “Um…”

“…You have to kill me now.”

The voice came out tiny and sheepish. “…I do, yeah.”

Sam’s shoulders fell. She sighed. “I mean, I guess.” If that’s what it took to leave. Jesus, if she’d had Rebirth and still couldn’t leave… it would just be chase after chase after chase until she got the hook or (if she was lucky) got mori'd. 

Susie bent over and there was _no way_ someone her size should be able to lift Sam so easily, but— “Hup we go. Just one hook. It’ll be over soon, I promise.”

A weak laugh made Sam’s shoulders shake. Sure. Sure it would. But it was hard to feel cynical around Susie. 

Which was very weird. 

But also kind of nice. 

…But also _very_ weird. Supremely. 

“Deep breath, here we go—”

As per usual, there was the visceral response to a hook through her shoulder, her scream cutting through the empty corridors. 

Susie hugged her around the waist. “Good luck! I hope you feel better!”

_Susie what the fuck are you. You are so fucking weird, I like you so much._

_But also OW._

Sam felt the pincers forming around her. She could try to get off. She didn’t bother. When it came time for her to struggle, she just didn’t. She went into the sacrifice with grim acceptance that verged on determination. Like this place wasn’t fucking weird enough already. Might as well see what happens next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you didn't pick up on it in previous chapters: US is an effect (the relocation) that only lasts as long as the user has contributed nothing to certain escape goals (generators, totems). On the one hand: wow! Getting teleported out of the killer's terror radius! Super useful! But on the other hand: wow! Being a really fucking terrible teammate! See how long your team will let that slide! The Entity doesn't like when people refuse to play its games. You better be sure there's only death, one way or another, if you spend the entire time refusing to cooperate. (This is also why this perk is entirely for this story; because I love torturing Sam, but I can't imagine anyone would want this as a perk xD Also because, in cases like this, it cancels out the end game collapse in favor of forcing a player to keep running for her life.)
> 
> And hey, Susie! I love Susie, she is baby, and you cannot convince me that the rest of the Legion doesn't do everything in their power to protect her, including taking punishment for her if/when the Entity is displeased with her performance. They need to have someone with hope, just like the survivors do.
> 
> Oh, and since there are no rules for climbing, I'm saying that Q&Q and other skills that affect noise for rushed and/or noisy actions would apply to climbing. Meaning you could make a pretty impressive stealth climbing build with Q&Q (getting up), Feather Fall (getting down/without scratch marks), Balanced Landing (speed boost), and Lightweight (extra assurance that when scratch marks do appear, well away from where you landed, they don't last as long). At least, that's how I figure in my head xD But again; I am no expert, and this is entirely theoretical. I probably sound like an idiot to people who know the game better. 😅
> 
> One final note: I was thinking about it. And Frank/Sam would be Morrison/Reid. Meaning their portmanteau ship name would be **MORREID**.  
> I MEAN HOW PERFECT CAN IT GET.  
> That is all, thanks for reading, leave a comment! 😂


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some unexpected happenings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short chapter - actually the next few are all short, but it's cause I didn't want any massive chapters, hopefully the cut-off points all make sense xD

“You seem better than usual.”

Sam _felt_ better than usual, too, for the day after a sacrifice. The residual apathy clung to her less this time around. Enough that she managed a small smile at Jake as her boots swept back and forth over the grass for anything hiding in the meadow of the clearing. “Yeah. It was a little easier this time.”

He hummed a kind of confirmation. It took another moment before he asked, “Any idea why?”

Yes. She’d finally gotten a hug from somebody. 

_Wowww. That’s really all it took, huh? Putting a lot of weight to one stupid little thing._

Well, it had meant a lot. Even if it came from a killer. Jeff had been _entirely_ right about Susie, Sam couldn’t believe she’d ever doubted him; the girl was very sweet. Even if she did… kill people. Which… Yeah, there wasn’t really… Look, she was… 

Okay, maybe there wasn’t much she could defend the girl with. She’d ended up here, after all. No one innocent ended up in hell, right? She must’ve killed people before, to end up a killer for eternity. 

Sam was looking at the ground, her smile quirking into a slight smirk. “Guess I’m getting better at this.” See how long that would last. Next sacrifice may be a different story. 

They fell back into comfortable silence, every minute thawing her more from the weaker hold of hopelessness. 

It was a sign of the absolute fucked-uped-ness of this place, that finding a syringe on the ground was a _good_ thing. And yet Jake seemed glad to have found it. 

“Your medkits need supplies?” 

“No shit, you don’t want it? Really?” It was one of the more sought-after supplies in the storeroom. She figured he’d rather have it for his own stuff, or for the camp as a whole. 

Jake shrugged a shoulder, holding it out to her. “You have that skill that needs healing a lot, right?” 

She hadn’t explained all the details of that particular double-edged sword yet, but she’d shared her frustration with figuring out the rules a while ago. He knew her situation— or part of it, anyway. 

Sam’s smile fell a bit, but she reached for the syringe. “Sure. …Yeah, thanks.” 

He didn’t let go when she grabbed it. “Sam.” Sam watched him uneasily, pulse picking up in her throat. “You’re—” He faltered, looking taken aback. “Um…” 

She could feel her face heating up, and her eyes nervously flicked to the side. This kinda didn’t make sense. She was blushing, nerves jangling and making her fingers twitch on the item between them. But she’d never really felt anything for Jake before. Like… nothing beyond a platonic appreciation. Why the sudden awkward tension?

“You’re uh—” He was just as flustered. “You’re doing well, that’s all. I was going to— I was just going to say, I’m—” 

Jesus, it had _never_ been this awkward between them before. 

“I’m uh— proud of you, I guess.” His brows furrowed, frowning. “…I have to go.”

That was probably for the best. As soon as he let go of the syringe, she turned slightly, giving him the out to leave, heart still pounding. 

What the fuck. Jake? _…Really?_ Him? He just… wasn’t her type. Like, at all. Sure, they had a bond going, they got along well, and she definitely trusted him. But romantically? 

She took another breath, gradually returning to calm. 

She wasn’t even remotely interested. So why the blushing and the awkward tension? 

Fuckin’ _weird._ Okay. 

Sam turned her eyes back to the way Jake had left, tapping the barrel of the syringe against the side of her finger. Well now she didn’t want to be _here._ But if she left she’d get more of that awkward. 

She covered her face, groaning. Well _that_ was sucky. One of the few people she’d count as something like a friend, and now there was this weird tension hanging between them. From fucking _nowhere._ Goddamn it. He was essential to her support system. Fucking up their relationship with anything more complex would be awful. And she didn’t _want_ that from him. 

Letting out a long breath, she shook her head. Fuck. 

Give it a minute. He’d probably be going off to do whatever mountain man stuff he did in the woods. She could head back to her bunk and keep working on her tapes project. And maybe possibly avoid him for the rest of the day. This was fine. 

* * *

Turned out, it would be surprisingly easy to avoid Jake, because Meg still had one more skill to teach, and it was time to gear up and learn to harness some adrenaline. 

Training was not her favorite thing in the world, but Kate was there, too, and… well, she liked Kate. 

And after her… god, it was such a bizarre moment, wasn’t it? But her weird hug with Susie had made it a little easier to be around people again. And she needed all the skills she could learn. 

After training, she focused on the tapes again. All she had was time. Day after a sacrifice, she wouldn’t have another trial right away. So she picked a few tapes to stick in the pockets of her shorts and headed for the orchard to do some listening in a spot where she could lay on the ground and breathe in something living. 

The tapes were continuously odd. There was an otherworldly kind of distortion to them, something that was lessened by the less-than-stellar sound quality of the junk tape deck’s speaker, but was always present. It reminded her a bit of the whispers in the fog, or the voice in the back of her head. The Entity was always present, somehow. Even then. Maybe even _more so_ then. 

So these tapes… they’d just shown up? A tool they were given, or something that had been secreted to them through some surreptitious means?

A tape ended. The click of recognition was like a generator being completed, that’s what it reminded her of. An alert that she’d succeeded. 

Sam took the tape out, glanced at the next label, and put that one in instead. “Gimme what you got, Nikki, let’s go,” she muttered, closing her eyes again as the distorted static played over distant indistinct noises. The second label on the tape had been _Hope._ Might as well get a little more of that. 

Studying the tapes was boring in a way - so much seemingly dead air - but she started to imagine the sort of people that had left the tapes. Sam grabbed herself a very convenient snack from their lovely impossible trees, and lay on the ground again with the next tape. She chucked the core of her apple into the woods. Then it was time for the next tape, on the road for a fifth skill of the day. 

She was only a few minutes into it when she scowled. 

Why was she getting the wet ankles thing? It was her day off. She’d been through the wringer last night; the Entity was supposed to let her soak up some positivity before it wrung her out again. 

Groaning softly, Sam stood and brushed any dirt off of her shorts, grabbing up the tapes and the player, then walked back toward camp, trying to think of what skills would be useful. She could only think of the tapes, and tried to think of other useful things. _Feather Fall._ Yeah, that felt essential sometimes. And— before she let the thought _‘Unwilling Survivor’_ finish in her head, she quickly thought of what she’d learned earlier. Meg’s adrenaline. Hope. The one only labeled as _We’ll Make It_ (look, it was still the day after a sacrifice; she looked for things that might lighten the mood). 

She needed to change her clothes. She was still dressed for training earlier, she should at least grab a jacket. And she didn’t have her medkit, which was unfortunate. 

_Shit, should have remembered Claudette’s_ —

Too late. She was already there, practically glowing, all pale skin and bright clothes in the blue light of the MacMillan estate. …Fuck. This is what she got for assuming she’d be off for one fucking night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, guess who the killer is. Just guess. Guess.
> 
> And yeah, re:earlier: it will make sense.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some serious pettiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I uhh. I will eventually find a way to not write trials. One day I will write fewer trials. T-T

It didn’t take long for Sam to realize who the killer was. She’d grimly decided that, even if she didn’t have her double-edged skill in the mix, she’d rather not piss off teammates by being useless again. Running wasn’t fun, she still felt drained from the night before, but there was that Entity-gifted stamina to just _do_ it, despite everything else. (The Shia Labeouf of this world. Complete with the whole eating people, and everything.) 

She was barely a few steps up the stairs of the coal tower, heading for the generator up top, when the heartbeat started, and seemed to just keep going. Was it unnerving as fuck to be hiding behind crates and keep thinking someone was somehow on her? Yes, yes it was. But it was even worse when she bit the bullet and jumped out from the top floor, steadying her landing and taking off at a run, only to find the chase she’d expected hadn’t actually been on her tail at all. And then it was. And of _course_ it was the fucking speed demon that was Legion in frenzy. 

She didn’t need to look back at him to know it was Frank. She still looked, anyway, glancing back for just a moment before watching her path again.

Fuck, that mask was disconcerting. Not as gruesome as some killers (the fucking Leatherface guy, for one, that was fucked up) but still off-putting. 

He caught up to her easily (of course he did, he was hyped up on Entity-gifted energy, there was no way she could outrun him for long) and Sam tensed for the hit. Instead, empty fingers brushed at the tattoo on the back of her bare shoulder, and it was her own damn fault when she stumbled. 

Another reason why this _stupid_ outfit was _stupid._ And _she_ was stupid for wearing it after daylight hours. Her frustration with that fact was only doubled when she heard the taunt behind her. 

“Was wondering when I’d get to see these up close.” 

If he meant the clothes or the tattoos that were no longer covered, she couldn’t know. What _did_ send a shiver over her was the implication that he’d already seen them from afar. 

Sam cut her turn sharply, slamming down the pallet between them, managing to hit him just a bit as he was growling the end of his frenzy, and she took off running again. Somehow she came out of that uninjured. 

_Can’t mean anything good if he’s not hurting you._

Her shoulders tightened, still feeling his fingertips. The heartbeat was fading away, she just needed to get some distance.

He might not be frenzied anymore, but he could still move faster than her. Luckily he seemed to be heading away, so she ducked behind a brick wall, working her way around corners at a walk, to take cover for a moment and figure out her next move. 

Sam tried to remember what any of her skills would do. She still didn’t know about the tape skills, and whatever they were they gave no clues. Must be situational somehow. It may be trial and error to figure out how they worked. Meg’s, she knew wouldn’t kick in until the last generator finished. And that was some ways away. And then Feather Fall. Her most familiar skill by now.

Her eyes caught movement on the ground, frowning. Fuck, that was red light, but the heartbeat wasn’t—

“ _Jesus_ fuckin’—” She jumped to her feet, stumbling back momentarily as he was right in front of her. Blocking her way out. Stupid, to put herself in a corner. 

“You immortal today, puppy?” 

Sam yelped at the slice across her arm, gritting her teeth and grabbing for the injury as he cleaned his blade. She should be taking advantage of his pause, pushing past him to keep running, but that would require her to _push past him_ which would require contact. And too much of her was okay with that idea for her to think it was smart. 

Frank had no such reluctance in getting close, backing her against the wall. The knife hovered a few inches from her arm again, but his other hand pressed against the bricks beside her head. 

“No magic act this time, hm. And not running?” 

Fuck, she wished she could see his face, so she could have any idea how to play this. “Why didn’t you hit me before?” If she wanted to be a good teammate, she could still try to stall him as much as possible. 

He leaned in close, face just to the right of hers, and Sam could hear the way his mask amplified his breath as he teased, “A man can’t admire the view?” 

There still wasn’t any pounding heartbeat, but Sam was well aware of her own pulse thrumming under her skin. She felt far too naked at the moment. Bare arms, bare legs, bare midriff, all soaking up the heat that radiated from his body. She swallowed her nerves, thoughts disturbingly silent. No arguments made, no defense given, just a complete denial to acknowledge the situation. Trying not to think about it.

“…I thought you already had,” she managed, attempting to sound something other than breathless, and failing.

There was a pause, and she flinched briefly as he raised the knife toward her face, but then he flicked it down into his palm, running a bloody knuckle down her cheek. “It seems to _me,_ at this point, you should’ve run. Do you know why you’re staying, puppy?” The question was a murmur as Frank’s mask pressed into her hair, and regardless of whatever thoughts might be held back, Sam simply _couldn’t_ think. 

“I…” He was so close. He was touching her, breathing her in, and her toes curled in her sneakers. She _should_ be running. 

“Because I do.” 

Sam felt the blush burning through her, heating every inch of her skin, but was trying to focus on coming back to her senses. Always so overwhelming…

The tip of his knife touched to her neck and she froze, tensing, as he slid it down lightly, leaving that burning itch in its wake. It briefly caught on the edge of her bra, but only lifted enough to keep going, pulling slightly against the fabric as it slid down over the curve of her breast, and Sam’s eyes closed tight, swallowing hard again. The thoughts that had been held in equilibrium were roiling in her mind, behind that screen of denial. The heartbeat came back, and she was glad for it, giving herself something to focus on besides his teasing touch. 

There was a thunk, chime in the distance. **_One._ **

The tip of the blade paused just past the bottom of the band, resting against her skin. “You’d better start looking for help, puppy. You’ll need it.” 

What?

She bit out a scream as the knife pierced between her ribs and pulled back out in one quick motion, and she slid down the wall she’d been pressed against as he cleaned off his blade once more. 

“Now don’t go dying on me yet. I’ve got plans for you.”

Sam clenched her jaw against the pain of a lethal wound as he left. 

_Recover. Then find someone, then start helping. You have to help._

The general good advice was there, and she took it, holding still and focusing on willing the blood to stay in her body. Didn’t do much good, the hand over her wound was quickly soaked, but she knew she had time. And if her time ran out, she’d be done with the trial at least. 

_A lot of time for him to come back and find you. A lot of time you’ll be useless._

Every part of her was arguing with herself, all of them loud in her head, every worry and frustration.

Why hadn’t she run? It had to be because she was stalling him, right? Retroactively, that felt like a believable explanation. She’d taken a calculated risk. 

No. No, she’d stayed because she didn’t want to give that small part of her leave to touch him. Letting him touch her was hard enough, put her through enough turmoil, without allowing herself to return it. 

It was the knife. It had to be the knife that made his touch so… so focused. One tiny point, instead of full skin-to-skin. It was… easier? No, it was harder, but… Fuck, it was just _confusing._

She’d done all she could, stabilized herself as much as possible, and now she could only wait or crawl. 

Rubbing at the welt down the side of her neck, relieving some of that itch, her mind flicked back to before. To the lines drawn over her skin, and how badly she’d wanted to be touched. Somewhere in the darkest recesses of her mind, she’d imagined it. What his hands would feel like somewhere other than just her wrists, her arms. Bare skin. Some part of her was hungry for it. 

And wasn’t that just fucked.

“Sam.”

Her eyes opened as a hand pressed over hers on her injury, putting the final touch on closing that wound before pulling away. 

Ah. Jake. Okay, someone reliable. 

She hurriedly shoved every unfortunate thought to the back of her mind as she stood to follow him away. Focus on the trial. 

It was hard, though. Getting healed was tense - more so after their awkward moment that morning - and it was hard to focus on their generator repairs, especially once that heartbeat came again. 

Sam was rising to her feet when Jake tapped her wrist. “Not real.” He never stopped working. “Got something messing with it, just keep an eye out. Wait til it gets closer, he’s chasing someone else.”

She didn’t particularly like the idea of just waiting until he showed, but Jake knew more about this than she did. And he was right, they needed to repair generators if they wanted to get out. But she felt in the middle of a chase herself, even with no sign of him. Just that constant pounding heartbeat. 

“Now-” Jake left at a sprint, and Sam tried to follow. She wasn’t as fast as he was, though. _Meg’s skill._

This time it wasn’t just a touch on her shoulder, and she was almost relieved that it was the blade instead of his hand. One point of contact. She broke away, escaping the chase, but she didn’t need to, he was heading off for Jake, anyway, the heartbeat still too loud and too fast as he moved away.

Sam had to pause to mend the wound, impatient. There was the sound of a pallet dropping nearby, but no noise of frustration. He didn’t get hit. No time to think about that, they’d been a third of the way through the generator. She limped back to it. 

She was past halfway when the heartbeat faded. Nearing in on 80% complete when she heard a scream, got an aura of a hook not too far off. She hesitated. Generator or teammate, generator or teammate. 

It was probably the wrong decision, but she left the generator. There was a twitch of guilt in her gut, because she knew why she was leaving: she needed someone to know she’d done something for the team. If she saved someone, even if the generator got ignored for a little bit, she’d have at least one person on her side. 

_You worked with Jake on the gen! He knows you did something._

She couldn’t be useless again. 

It was Ace, on the hook. Legion was gone, and Sam rushed in to lift her teammate down. 

“Thanks.”

“Heal?” Sam offered. 

“Nah, I’ve got a second wind, I’ll be fine, go work on repairs.”

Someone else was downed, then almost immediately hooked. 

“I got it,” Ace offered, heading in that direction. “Get gens.”

Sam nodded, running back to the generator she’d been working on before. Jake was on it again, and almost as soon as she’d touched it he finished. 

**_Two._ **

“Heal up?” she offered. 

Jake turned her down, too. “Their frenzy can’t take you down if you’re already wounded, just force you to stop and mend. We’ll save time running injured.” 

Right. …Okay. But didn’t that mean he only had to hit them once? It felt risky. But Jake had been doing this far longer than her. Longer than most of the survivors. 

They hurried to another generator, weaving between walls and around logs and debris - another scream, another hook - until they found one. 

Focus on working. Focus on working. But she was nervous, jumpy despite the assurance that this was the right thing to do. They were most of the way through another when the generator sparked under her hands, crossing the wrong wires, and Sam felt a small miserable touch of failure. 

_Stop it._

She had to talk some sense into herself. Don’t get sad, get angry. Get determined. 

_Get your shit together._

There was that shockwave through the air, and the generator sparked and popped again as she once more fumbled the wires, gritting her teeth. Someone was sacrificed already. It had to be Ace, right? Or the one he’d gone to save. They should’ve had more time. 

Jake let out a short irritable breath, still focused on his work as he muttered, “Dick.”

There was no heartbeat for a while. A long while. 

Thunk, chime, their generator was completed. **_Three._ **

Only two more. Only two more generators and her adrenaline would kick in and they’d make a run for the—

Fuck. Another hook. Jake pointed the opposite direction as he ran off for the save. Sam went looking for another generator. 

When the heartbeat started up again, that jolt in her chest that warned she was being chased, it was a lot harder to ignore than when Jake had been there. She looked around frantically, trying to spot the red stain, but found nothing. Still, she vaulted through a window of the coal tower, running upstairs and watching behind her. 

No light. It was that same issue again. Whatever was manipulating their warning system. 

Sam got to work on the generator, feeling twitchy as fuck. He’d get a bead on her soon enough. That was part of their instinct, intuition telling them where to find another victim. 

_Do your repairs. Two more to go. Don’t think, just do._

The heartbeat faded. Okay. So he hadn’t come this way. More time for repairs. More time. 

She was 50% done when the next hook came. They were in the same general area. Like he was just waiting for people to come save in order to take them down. _What a fuckin’ dick._ It felt cheap. But it gave her more time to work. 

This time, when the heartbeat came, she ignored it. Almost there. And then there would only be one more needed. 

It got louder. Faster. 

_Shit,_ maybe it wasn’t fake. She ran to the opposite window this time, waiting until she saw the red light on the stairs before jumping and taking off as fast as she could. She winced against the pain of running while injured, but gritted her teeth and pushed on. 

She was proud of herself for looping him for a bit, but started to notice a trend in the way he was trying to cut her off. Herding her. Pushing her toward one corner of the trial grounds. _Hell no, fuck your plans._ Taking a chance, breaking off a different direction, she tried to avoid wherever he was leading her. If she kept him chasing long enough, the other two could complete generators. 

He was gaining. Time to drop another pallet. Just- a few- more- feet-

The wood slammed down but he’d already lunged across, slicing across her bare stomach, and she fell with a frustrated growl. She’d stunned him but he’d still gotten a hit. No fucking fair. 

She started crawling, trying to get as far as possible, to waste as much time as possible. The heartbeat faded out, but she knew better than to trust that now. It had lied to her over and over again in this trial. She could see the stain on the ground, anyway. She knew he was behind her, just taking his time walking around the pallet instead of breaking it. It just irritated her more. That he could take his time with her. 

_“I can be patient… I’m taking my time with_ you, _aren’t I?”_

Oh god. Worst possible time to remember that. 

Worse still, it sent a shiver through her and the noise when he picked her up and lugged her over his shoulder came out more of an indignant whine than the fury she’d hoped for. Immediately, she started struggling, wincing at the pull against her wounds but kicking with all she had. 

“Puppy—” His knife pricked at the seat of her shorts, tone warning, and her struggle faltered for a moment. “Be a good girl and save the wiggling for later, hm?” 

The hand on her thigh tightened, and Sam became all too aware of how naked her legs were, how much contact she had against him. It had been different in jeans and long sleeves. Heat was rushing through her, and she was ashamed to admit her next bout of movement was less about getting away and more about her own embarrassment, locking her knees together and giving one more kick. 

She bit her lip at the thumb that rubbed circles against the back of her thigh, ignoring her shifting. 

Shit. 

_Goddamn it._

What the fuck was wrong with her. He was right, she was immensely fucked up. Not for wanting to die - though undoubtedly that was true, too - but for… but for wanting… 

Her feet pointed and flexed anxiously, refusing to finish that thought, even as she ducked her face against his back, letting out a frustrated huff of breath. 

She felt the vibration against every point of contact as he chuckled. “Don’t get too comfortable. I’m not done with you.” 

_“…I’m not done with you yet, Sammy.”_

Fuck, everything he’d said that day, all of it, burned into her memory. A little tremor made her shake briefly in his hold, feeling something deep in her gut that she’d rather not acknowledge. 

Luckily for her, she didn’t have to, since it vanished pretty much the second the meat hook pierced through her back. She screamed. It was reflex. 

“You motherfucking—” Sam panted harsh breaths through gritted teeth. “You—” Hard to talk with the hook. She needed a second. 

Frank lifted a finger. “Hold that thought.” He broke into a run, sprinting away in frenzy. 

Dick. What a fucking bastard. But she could see the aura of someone nearby. Sam held still, trying to be patient even as her face burned. It was humiliating enough dealing with whatever the fuck was wrong with her body, whatever crossed wires had decided to light up for _him_ of all people, but the dismissive cocky way he handled it all? Like it was something he’d expected from her? He’d said he knew why she didn’t run… maybe he did. 

_Fuck._

Sam pushed that train of thought aside as she spotted Jake running for the save. Good. Good, she could get away from this. She’d just _love_ to run from this right now. 

The heartbeat was strong in her ears. Shit. She could see him, too, and wanted to tell Jake to run and come back for her, but hesitated. By the time she opened her mouth, managed a, “Wait, you need to get out of-” it was too late. He was already lifting her down, and when she tried to run Legion sliced across her back and she was downed again. 

“Fuck! Why— Can’t you just give me a second to run?”

He was already heading off. Leaving her on the ground. 

Sam groaned into the grass. Another chance at recovery. She’d just have to wait for help. And hope Asshole McSonofaBitch was distracted enough chasing Jake. 

_Deep breaths. You still have another teammate. This isn’t over._

There hadn’t been a generator finished in quite some time. Maybe they _were_ screwed. Getting downed and left right in front of a hook, that couldn’t be good. 

She sighed. Yeah. Probably. They were all fucking screwed. He was playing dirty tonight. 

_You wish._

Sure would be nice if her mind could figure out what side of this attraction it was on. 

_Told you so. Attraction. You think so, too._

Arguing with oneself was such a pointless activity. But yes, she preferred denial. _Still_ preferred denial. Still intended to deny what she knew objectively to be true. Just because she liked him touching her, and didn’t like other people touching her, didn’t mean he was in any way shape or form more than just a minor physical attraction. That was all. And it was something she’d just have to muscle past, because she sure as hell couldn’t act on it. Wasn’t going to. Didn’t want to. 

_Hmmmm but really though? You sure about that?_

Pointless. Argument. 

The heartbeat was back. Where the hell was her— ah, there it was, still a ways off. Another silhouette. Good try, anyway. Even if they’d be too late to stop her getting hooked again. 

There was a thud, noise as something hit against the base of the hook. 

Sam craned her neck around, and her stomach sunk. Well, so much for Jake. Frank didn’t even put him on the hook, either, just left him on the ground. 

“I will be _right back,”_ he excused himself gleefully. “You two lovebirds just hang out here, have some more quality bonding time while I take care of JJ.” 

Shit, he was running toward the other silhouette. And it was on its way here, anyway, had been closing the distance. 

There were some brief sounds of chase, but without another person to draw attention, to act as a distraction, it didn’t last long. 

Frank showed up not long after hauling Jeff over his shoulder, and dumped him on the ground as well. 

“Three little slugs. How cute.”

Jake had been crawling away from the hook - Sam hadn’t even heard him - but Frank just picked him up and brought him back again. 

“Now. Puppy. Back on the hook.” 

What? Why her? She shot a disbelieving look at Frank. “What the fuck.”

“Hush up.” He hauled her up again. “You’re getting front and center for this. Need you to—” Sam shrieked as the hook jammed through her again. “—make a choice for me.”

She closed her eyes, trying to calm herself. Breathe. Breathe. Try to breathe. _Fuck,_ that hurt. And she could feel the pincers forming. She’d be fighting them off, soon. 

“No no no, eyes open.”

It made her want to keep them closed just out of spite, but she was too morbidly curious what he was up to. 

He was dragging Jake closer, pulling him across the grass by one arm. Sam glared. There was no reason for him to be doing this. He had them all down, just had to hook everyone. Why was he killing time?

“I’m leaving the call up to you, Sammy.” Frank dropped Jake’s arm and sat on his back. “Your choice. How’s your boyfriend here gonna go; hook? Or mori.”

Her boyfriend? What the fuck? Jake definitely wasn’t— Before today, she’d never even considered him as anything. Even today, it hadn’t made sense. They weren’t interested in each other. It was just some random physical response, some cross-wiring that had booted her pulse up, that— 

It clicked in her head. “ _You._ ” That sudden moment of her heart racing in the clearing when Jake had lingered earlier. Not some attraction out of the blue; that had been a killer heartbeat. “You were—”

“Choose. Does loverboy get the mori? Or are you saving it for yourself. Want to leave him on a hook to have his soul _scraped out?”_

That was how she’d put it, in the lodge. When he’d claimed none of it was real, that it didn’t matter. 

The sacrifice was hell. Mori was the merciful route. It always was, for her.

“The longer you wait, the less likely you’ll make it off that hook in time.”

“Mori.”

“What the _fuck,_ Sam?!” But Jake was already getting pushed over onto his back, trying to scoot away as Frank stabbed the knife through his ankle and dragged him back again before plunging the blade into his chest and—

Oh Jesus. Fuck, that was… And so much _blood._ She averted her eyes, but the _noise_ of it, the crack and rip of a body being bisected via the sternum… Her own chest ached in sympathy. But at least Jake was free of the trial.

Mercy killing. RIght? 

…These things were desensitizing her faster than she’d ever thought possible.

Frank pulled off his blood-spattered mask, wiping dripping hands against his clothes before pushing his hair out of his eyes as he stood. He glanced down at the mask, then held it in her direction. “Always wear eye protection, am I right?”

“That’s fucking sick.” She could see the phantom limbs, almost fully formed. 

“I’m no saint, puppy, never claimed to be.” He tossed the mask on the ground before walking to Jeff and flipping him over as well. “JJ.”

“Frank.” The older man looked wary. Which was exactly the right attitude, to be honest. 

“I’ve got a deal for you.”

Sam yelped as the claw aimed for her chest, grabbing it and trying to keep it from impaling her. 

“I’m gonna take Sammy down.” He was? “She’s gonna put you back on your feet. And you’re gonna take _this_ ,” he pulled something from his pocket. A key? “—And get the hell out of here. Fair?”

She clutched at the pincer, struggling with all she had. “Fuck— take the _fucking_ deal, Jeff!” 

Jeff nodded. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full transparency: I do _not_ understand the iridescent button. I have watched games where people played against it, I still am not 100% on the heartbeat effect, I just hope it makes sense in context xD
> 
> Didn't do anything amazing with researching builds for this, Frank was just being a toxic guy in general. (But if you're curious I think I decided it was Enduring, Thanatophobia, Nemesis, and Hangman's Trick. I think. Definitely Nemesis and Thana. I feel like I'm caring less about game accuracy and more about interesting narrative as time goes on 😅 )
> 
> So yeah. Frank's a massive dick this trial. Really just the absolute worst. Next chapter will finish this trial up. Feel free to leave your thots ^^


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pettiness, spite; these are two halves of one whole idiot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3
> 
> Sam is the most unstable person, I love her.

Frank stood up, and as soon as he had a grip on her, the pincers melted away. She was still injured, but not about to get skewered, so that was something. He set her on her feet and jerked his head to Jeff. “Go on, puppy.”

Sam glared, but gave Jeff the last bit of healing needed to be back on his feet. 

He hesitated, as though he expected Sam to take off sprinting, but she didn’t. “Thanks.” He sounded guilty. 

Sam just shook her head, seething, as he left at a hobbling run. “You’re such a fucking bastard,” she spat, whirling on Frank despite her injuries. 

She should’ve run. She _really_ should’ve run, she was being an _idiot._ But he could’ve let her die. He could’ve let her die _and_ hooked Jeff, and he didn’t. So there must be some reason for that.

He was sitting on a nearby crate, one foot up beside him, spinning his knife on its point wedged into the wood grain. “…And yet you can’t stop thinking about me.” That sharp grin, wolfish and hard-eyed. 

That was beside the point, and only served to irritate her more. “You’re stalking me.” Of course she’d think of him if he was creeping on her. 

“Don’t think no one noticed _you_ trying to cross the line.” His look was warning. The killers knew about that? “Don’t go sticking hands where they don’t belong, or you’re liable to get them chopped off.” 

Briefly, she wondered if that was even possible. She’d never had someone try to sever a limb here. _Jesus fuck_ — _less morbid, please, focus on the topic at hand._

Heh. Hand. 

Sam shook her head, dismissing all of that. “ _I_ never crossed it.” Not really. “ _You_ threw a fucking _knife_.”

“You said you wanted to learn,” he sneered. It took a second for that to click. Right, knife throwing. She’d rather try that than the sling. He’d been listening? How long was he watching them that day? “Not my fault your boyfriend doesn’t have the skill to do it.”

“Stop calling him my boyfriend.” Oh god. The broken body may have gone, but the sound still echoed in her memory. She’d seen worse here - _experienced_ worse, in the case of the Deathslinger - but this one was still fresh. She needed to stop thinking about that. Just another gory snapshot to add to the scrapbook. She’d really prefer not to remember that. And how _betrayed_ Jake had been in those last moments. 

“You two spend an awful lot of time together.”

Sam turned sharp eyes on him, levelly. “You sound jealous, Frank,” she challenged. How fucking toxic could it get? Jealous over the fact that she had a friend? Jealous that someone else was on her mind instead of just his words, his manipulative _bullshit_ invading her head? 

“Don’t have anything to be jealous of,” he shrugged. “One of us is alive right now and one isn’t. I think I’m coming out on top.”

Her voice was stony and cold. “You’re not helping your case.” Red flags. Good. Maybe that would fix her crossed wires, remind her there were so very many things wrong with any kind of attraction to him. Beyond the killing— which, honestly, should’ve been the biggest red flag of all. 

“I’m not _jealous._ I don’t need to be. You’re the one who asked me to kill you twice now. Your twisted little mind _loves_ it. I’m just doing you a favor, helping you along with your death wish.”

Death wish, huh? Was that his only bargaining chip in this situation? That he’d stopped her from dying? If he only did it to manipulate her - and that seemed to be his M.O. - she owed him nothing. Not a single thing. What, did he think he’d _saved_ her? He’d put her there in the first place. 

Sam’s eyes narrowed as she took a few steps closer, watching his posture, his face, looking for a reaction. “‘And yet you can’t stop thinking about me,’” she parroted back his words from just a moment ago. 

He made no attempt at a response, and his silence was too much of a confirmation. 

Could she handle another hook? Her recovery from the last one had been surprisingly easy. Probably thanks to Susie. Who, by the way: why would she _ever_ choose to be around someone as slimy, someone as cunning and vicious as Frank? 

_Yeah but remember the medkit? Remember when he panicked and tried to stop you dying?_

What, to ruin her plan? Sure she did. 

_Sure seemed concerned, then._

Sure seemed _disappointed_ that she was taking it into her own hands instead of doing what _he_ wanted. The memory, once filtered correctly, only served to cement her choice. 

His gaze was wandering over her, and she felt uncomfortably Seen. But she needed to get close to get what she wanted. Uncomfortably close, maybe. Was this what ‘feminine wiles’ meant? It had a little less sex appeal when she was trying not to limp.

Her breath felt heavy, nervous, but she kept a determined glare, intent on enacting her plan. He didn’t deserve to win this. Not after what he did to Jake. Not after what he’d done to _her,_ making her choose. And if she had to take herself down a little in the process… It wasn’t the first time she’d made a sacrifice for the sake of spite.

Even with that determination, she still felt uneasy getting so close willingly. That fucking heartbeat. Common sense. Would it _ever_ go away around him?

_You shouldn’t want it to. It’s there for a reason: to stop you getting killed._

Fair. 

Frank was just staring at her. Watching her. His gaze had lost its humor, just leaving something intense and… hungry. He watched her like he was hungry. 

_“All you runners are meat for slaughter, don’t forget that.”_

Yeah. Don’t forget that. 

…Hadn’t killed her yet, though. Sam just had to psych herself up enough to do it herself before he had a chance. _‘You can’t save me, I’ll die.’_ Sure, that felt like an entirely appropriate response. 

(…This place was messing with her sanity, if she ever had it to begin with.)

Closer. And closer. Almost close enough to reach it. Almost close enough to hit the leg that hooked over the edge of the crate. She tried not to let her gaze linger on the knife, but it might not have mattered. 

His eyes tracing previously-hidden ink felt like his blade on her skin. The leaves that curved down and around her ribs, only partially visible. The top of the numerals peeking over her waistband at her hip. The single-line portrait on her leg. 

She felt every muscle in her tense when he reached out his empty hand, slipping it around her thigh to run his thumb along the line, following each curve and double-back. 

Sam chewed at her lip. Her glare slipped, a bit of anxiety peeking through, but just as intent. He shouldn’t be allowed to feel good. She shouldn’t like that. He’d just killed her friend, then let her off the hook like some kind of bargain to force her to stay. He was not good. 

So then why did he _feel_ so good?

Her arms had been a safe zone and he’d pushed the limit there, had made them sensitive and needy, and now he seemed intent on her legs. Working his way inward. The thought made her mouth dry and she swallowed hard. Her fingers twitched briefly as she got up her nerve. 

Finally, she bit the bullet and cautiously reached for the hand with the knife. 

She could feel Frank’s attention shift, his thumb pausing its careful path, as he watched her warily. His hand closed around the handle again, like she might try to take it from him. Nope. He had to be the one holding it. Or maybe he didn’t, but she wasn’t willing to take the chance. She’d probably only get one shot with this. Get him complacent, then strike. 

Thin fingers delicately wrapped around his wrist, lifting his hand - and his knife - from its perch. Pulling it towards her. If he was going for her legs today, so be it. She avoided his stare, just watching the knife as she brought the tip to her other thigh and moved his hand to trace a line up it. She could hear him sucking in a breath with the movement of the blade. 

The hand on her tattoo tightened, fingertips digging into her skin, and she felt the muscles in his wrist tense, holding tighter to the knife’s handle before taking over the movements she’d started.

Her abdomen tightened, toes curling and legs shaking with their sudden tension. Right. She’d forgotten this bit. This involuntary reaction. Her empty hand closed into a fist, clenching and releasing to lessen some of her nerves. 

Finally, Sam risked a look at his face. Good. He was focusing on his work with the knife. She’d noticed it before, at the lodge, how it calmed him, pulled his focus.

She tried to keep that leg mostly still, but she still found the muscles in her back bunching, her hips shifting impatiently. 

Movement caught her eyes as Frank’s lips twitched into a slight hooked smile, and he let go of her tattooed leg and pulled her clenched fist to his shoulder, tightening on her wrist until she took the hint and held on. When his grip returned to her body, it was on her hip, firm, trying to hold her still. 

Fuck. Not allowed, this shouldn’t be physically allowed, the laws of physics or— or biology, or _something_ shouldn’t have allowed nerves to work this way. 

It was pulling _her_ focus, too, mixing her thoughts up, distracting her with sensation. 

She was still holding his wrist loosely with her other hand, following the movements as the knife’s tip bit little welts into her skin. The hand on his shoulder tightened. She needed that support. For more reasons than one. 

There was a soft shake under her touch; a silent laugh. 

Right. This was a plan. To remove the one bit of leverage he held over her: her life. Couldn’t gift it to her if she took it herself. She thought like that a lot these days… Whatever it took, to cope with the constant inevitable deaths. 

No more stalling. 

“Frank?” His name came out hushed, more breathless than she would’ve liked, as her fingers tightened on his wrist. 

He raised his eyes to hers, that shadow of a smile on his lips, and her stomach flipped over itself. Now was her moment. 

“…Fuck you.” She pulled his hand back only to jam the knife into her leg, pushing away from him and stumbling back onto the ground. 

That one moment of shock she saw on his face made it worth it. She could handle the pain. She was getting better and better with pain. And seeing him surprised was so very validating. 

“What the hell, Sam?”

A dark laugh shook through her. “Your fucking face.” It was maybe a tiny bit hysterical. “You—” Her hand pressed against the wound, slipping in the sudden flow of blood. “You’re not winning this, Frank.” She heard his frustrated breath even as she closed her eyes, smirking. 

There was quiet for a long time. “…You get real fuckin’ loopy when you’re dying, you know that?” 

“Oh fuck off.” She tried to gesture loosely with her hand, but it was getting heavier. 

Another long moment of pause, and then she felt him lifting her up on one shoulder. The fucker. He was gonna hook her after all. She could’ve expected as much. It made her mouth bitter, but there wasn’t much she could do now. She’d forced him to let someone leave with a key. That had to be a positive.

Only, he didn’t put her on the hook. Instead, he set her back down, back propped up against one of the other nearby bits of debris. 

“You’re such a fuckin’ dumbass, Sammy,” he muttered, voice close. 

Sam let out a long _pshhh_. “Yeah, okay.” Another scoff of a laugh. 

“Can you even die today?” He sounded as resigned as he was annoyed. Weirdly patient. Their little game of knives had certainly calmed his mean streak.

What did… Oh. He knew about that? “Susie told you.”

“Yeah. Susie tells me everything. She’s like a sister to me.” She’d never heard him sound quite so soft before. Maybe he was telling the truth. But if he was…

Sam grimaced. So he knew about her existential crisis, then. Maybe. Or at the very least, he knew about her double-edged skill. 

There was a tense silence, and it felt like he was about to say something else. Sam squinted one eye open to check. 

Frank was crouched beside her, arms crossed and resting on his knees, chin propped on top as he watched her. Watched her dying. There was a little notch between his brows as he frowned. “You’re lucky I’m nice, you know that?”

She let out a harsh bark of laughter, facing front again and closing her eyes. “‘ _Nice.’_ Says the guy who made me pull a Sophie’s Choice on how my friend would die. If he’s even my friend after this.” That made her chest sore.

“He’ll come back.” So dismissive. “They all come back.” 

Sam grudgingly had to agree. At least when it came to moris. Sacrifices may be riskier, but moris were just another dose of suffering. It was why she preferred them. Didn’t mean Jake would ever forgive her for it. She could be as pissed as she wanted for that, it was her right.

It was getting harder to hold onto that anger, though, as more blood drained.

“…And I’m definitely nicer than some,” he added, tone dark. 

She felt leaden. Couldn’t even jump at the surprise of fingers brushing her hair behind her ear.

“Next time you die, you’d do better hiding than parading how long it’s taking you to fuck right off this mortal coil.” 

Such sage advice. Sam jerked slightly in a bitter laugh. 

“I’m serious. Some of these guys…” Frank trailed off. His thumb was brushing against her cheek softly, which felt so at odds with the pricklier warning of his tone. “They’re fucked up. You hear bottles smashing, you get the hell out of there and hope he didn’t brush up on Deerstalker.”

Bottles? She felt woozy. “Summ’on has bottles?” Her words were going. The last bit of time before things went dark. A ticking clock, that last-minute high.

“And Herman. The guy will fuck with your head, but he’s not above a little physical torture, too. Worse than me.”

“You act like yer so scary but yer not thasscary.” It was like nitrous oxide.

“…I think I’m a little insulted at that.”

Sam snorted softly, breath evening out. 

“Danny, too. He’s fun sometimes, but an absolute dick with a love of blackmail. The best way to deal with that is usually to stab him, but you can’t do that, so just avoid him. Not that I have a problem with a little humiliation, but the guy can cross some lines.” 

“Why’re you tellingmee thiss?” 

There was a long pause. “Susie likes you.” 

That high before death removed the filter between brain and mouth, but she didn’t get a chance to speak the thought that had just popped into her head, because everything was gone. 

And then she was back in the field.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I love the 'traitorous body' trope. Also: a peek at soft Frank. Just a peek. :3


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> back at camp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short li'l chapter.

Sam was just a teensy tiny bit awkward about that trial. Just a bit. Just about… oh, the last 20% of it. Where she’d been responsible for Jake’s mori, and Jeff had seen her stay with Frank in exchange for a free out.

Just a little nervous about the way things had gone, not gonna lie. 

Jake was still pissed. She may have had time for it to dull in her mind, to blend in with the rest of the constant blood and pain that was the trials, but she knew how it felt. How much it would keep hurting for a few more hours yet. He wasn’t talking to her, but he didn’t talk much anyway. Give it time. Maybe they could fix this. It wasn’t the first time he’d been mori’d, and it wouldn’t be the last. If he understood her reasoning, he might see it how she saw it: a mercy killing. 

Ace had been the only one out of the loop on their final encounter. “Any of you find my key? I dropped it at the hook, I hoped one of you would get it.”

Sam shot a glance at Jeff, warily. Would he tell the truth? As much as she was generally for transparency… in theory… that really wouldn’t look good on her. It was a little damning, actually, to know she’d willingly stayed with a killer. 

Fuck, she’d _willingly_ stayed with a killer. And _willingly_ touched him. To enact a plan, sure, to get her petty revenge, but there was no denying she’d… 

No, no; there _was_ denying. She’d deny that. Didn’t like that at all. Hated every second. Not one pleasant sensation among them. 

“I found it, yeah. Got a chance to escape and took the hatch.”

So he would keep her secret. And Jake made no move to ask _how_ he’d managed to escape, or how Sam had finished out the night. She might need to come up with an excuse for that one. 

When they got back to camp, Jake disappeared immediately. Sam headed for the mess to avoid any immediate questions about the trial. 

“Sam, can I— Can I talk to you? For a second?” For such a big guy, Jeff was really soft-spoken. 

Shit. This might be… Yikes. Well. As much as she’d love to avoid it… No time like the present, she supposed. “Privately?” She wasn’t going to do this here. 

“Sure.”

As much as she might have preferred the forest, the closest real place for privacy (a door and everything!) was the storeroom. 

Once inside Sam avoided eye contact. If this was going to be some kind of lecture… Well, she didn’t know how to respond. 

“…So what happened out there?”

Sam swallowed, putting together an excuse in her head as she wandered the shelves. Food, supplies, emergency items for trials… “You left, Frank was a dick, I got sacrificed.” That was believable, right? She still kept her back to him, finger tracing along a shelf of spare keys, maps, flashlight parts, tools… 

It was quiet for a second. That couldn’t be good. 

There was a soft clink at the other end of the shelf and Sam turned, stomach sinking. 

He was setting down a key. 

He hadn’t used it. She should’ve known. She’d never gotten that thought, that reminder to find the hatch. He hadn’t left. 

Jeff didn’t look at her, and she was grateful for that, because she felt herself stuck somewhere between shock and shame. 

“You, er… You might want to come up with a more believable excuse. You’re pretty obviously different after a sacrifice.” His voice was gruff, but he didn’t seem angry. Which… was good? Maybe?

“How…” Her throat felt tight, and she cleared it awkwardly. “How much did you see?”

“Not much,” he assured her quickly. “I had to find the hatch just in case, I heard you two arguing for a bit, and— and then I went to find the hatch…” 

That wasn’t the end of it. She could tell there was more. What else had he seen?

“Look, it’s… It’s not my business, really.” 

Fuck, it was obvious neither of them wanted to talk about this. And yet he continued to talk. Sam felt her neck growing hot. 

“I’m not here to tell you who you’re allowed to— to…”

“I’m not,” Sam said, quickly. “We’re— it’s not— That’s not a thing.” Jesus, this conversation was a mess. 

“It’s just, he doesn’t take off his mask, and he did for you, so—”

“It’s—” Fucking Christ. How the hell could she explain that. “He did it on a whim in another trial, that’s all.” Her hands kept wandering, refusing to look at him, moving from shelf to shelf. “Pretended to be a survivor the first time he met me. I’m not— If anyone, I might be friends with _Susie,_ she’s the nice one—” Was that better? Was it enough to take his attention off of the Frank issue?

“But that’s part of it, too. Most of the survivors, we see them as a unit. The others, they give them nicknames, sure, but that’s just to tell them apart.”

 _But those are their names._ _I’m not allowed to call them by their names?_

She didn’t know what else to say. 

“…I just hope you’re taking care of yourself. I trust you to know what side you’re on.”

That seemed like a very nice way of saying _don’t forget, they are the enemy._ Or _don’t betray us._ It wasn’t quite a threat, just a reminder in kinder words. “I do,” she assured him, quietly, fingers plucking at a drawer of the rusted filing cabinet.

 _I am very well aware. Especially every time he kills me._

Which had been… Well, actually, he’d really only killed her twice. The mori in her first trial with him, and their… weird assisted suicide. He’d given her the hatch their second trial. And this time she’d been the one killing herself with his knife. 

_Two out of four is still a whole lot. A 50% chance of painful death is not a good bet. A 50% is below an F. You’re getting an F in self-preservation. Congrats._

“If you and Frank—” 

Sam wrenched open the cabinet drawer, mostly so the metal-on-metal would drown him out. She didn’t want to think about _‘if you and Frank’_ anything. Or maybe she _did,_ and that was the problem. 

Jeff went quiet again, and she felt guilty. She should come clean to _someone_ about this. But there was not a single person she could trust with it. She couldn’t even trust _herself_ with it, why the hell else would she be so full of denial? 

The items in the drawer briefly distracted her from her guilt, brows furrowing at the sight of that second box of tapes. The one with the pincer-like doodles was right on top, but there were several others, some looking like duplicates - or close to duplicates - with minor changes to the handwriting or hastily scrawled artwork. And another tape recorder, identical to the first, right down to the scratch across the speaker. She had to wonder how that was possible. 

And speaking of Frank… his name was on one of them. Two of them, actually. And Susie’s, too. Along with a couple varieties of _Project Awakening_ in view, and more below. A whole mixed bag of cassettes. Her gaze lingered for a moment. …Sure wouldn’t mind listening to some of those tapes. If they were anything like the Lost Tapes, she stood to learn a whole lot more about this place. 

“…that I think you should be careful.” 

Shit, she’d missed the first part of that. 

“They may not be as warped or monstrous as some of the other killers here, but they still _are_ killers.”

“I know.” Sam turned back to Jeff, finally looking him in the eyes. “I know, and thanks.”

After a second of awkward hesitation, he added, “…So, Susie, huh? You met her?”

“Yeah.” The corner of her lips turned up. “No clue how she ended up here, that’s for sure.”

“Still a killer. Even if she’s a sweetheart. Fell in with the wrong crowd, I guess.”

 _Fell in with Frank._ She didn’t need him to complete that thought to get the gist of it. More warnings. What, like she wasn’t already warning herself about this constantly?

“Well. Thanks for the heads up, Jeff. And—” Sam swallowed briefly. “If you could, y’know… not mention it to anyone…”

“…Sure. Sure, Sam, I’ll— Just… be careful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun stuff next chapter. Good times. And the chapter after it? Better times. And after that? Even *better* times. Fun fun fun.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. In this chapter we meet Drunk Sam.  
> Drunk Sam is even more of an idiot than usual.  
> She'll be sticking around for another two chapters. :3

The conclusion Sam had come to, after a couple days of ruminating on it, was that there was definitely something wrong with her.

This, of course, was nothing new. But _wow,_ it really had to be _him_ of all people? _Them,_ if she counted Susie. Pretty damn fucked if those were the only people who had the OK for contact. He’d fucking _killed her friend. Multiple_ friends. One of them, killed right in front of her in some petty revenge because the asshole was jealous that she spent time with someone else. 

_I’m not your fucking girlfriend._

That’s what Sam should’ve told him. Should’ve screamed it in his stupid attractive face. 

_And even if I were, you’d still have no right to be a dick to my friends._

She should’ve said something like that. She hadn’t. Instead she’d gotten far too distracted by his stupid hands, and his stupid knife, and her stupid _stupid_ body. 

Knives? It had to be knives? Sam knew she had a minor kink for liking things rough once she let herself be touched (which was rare; there was a reason most of her physical encounters were dating app hookups: she got it all out at once and cut it off before she could get clingy). But _knives?_ Big yikes. 

And yet for some fucking reason. Some _inexplicable_ reason. The restraint, the delicate touch that threatened without harming, it just _did_ something for her. That damned heartbeat, too. The moment in the clearing with Jake only served to exemplify the issue: how easy it was to mistake fear for excitement. Arousal in one way or another. 

_Fucking Christ._

Maybe she needed to just make other connections, already. Finally really try to build bonds beyond Jake and Zarina (and to a lesser degree, Kate). Or maybe she should try to share real affection with someone. With someone capable of returning it. Who wasn’t a psychopath. 

Rejection, however, loomed large in her mind. 

_Don’t forget; you’re here forever._

Oh joy of joys.

Jake had been giving her the silent treatment for a couple days now, though she hadn’t been sacrificed again (yet), so it was unclear if that would hold on through her recovery needs or not. …She really hoped he’d be talking to her again, by then. Or at least willing to accompany her places. She needed someone to kick her ass out of bed long enough to move. Jake was always good at that. 

Would rejection be better or worse in a situation like this? On the one hand… 

No, it all had the potential to be very very bad. What if a grudge didn’t age, either? Fresh forever? Or if she pissed people off enough that they’d sabotage her in trials? Let her get hooked just to get her out of the way?

 _Alternatively: what if they_ can’t _stay mad at you, because they need you?_

Oh, a helpful thought, that was rare. 

_You’re all out there fighting together, can’t hold a grudge._

Except yeah, they could. 

Ugh. She was so fucking indecisive and anxious and… Sam sighed. She knew getting in her head was almost always a bad idea. It was not a happy place. 

There was whooping from the Fire. Unusually exuberant, given most trials returned either grimly satisfied or some degree of disappointed. She had no choice but to go investigate. 

“That was one _hell_ of a way to make a hundred, man, nicely done!” 

By the time she made it into the light, jacket slipped on over her flannel, the group of celebrating survivors was already migrating towards the mess hall. 

“What’s going on?” Sam directed her question to Min, who was loitering before following the rest. 

“Steve made his hundredth escape. All four of us made it out of Glenvale, with a toolbox, two medkits, _and_ some whiskey we stole out of the saloon.”

Well shit, yeah, that was a hell of a feat. Sam didn’t even attempt to hide how impressed she was. 

Min was looking triumphant. “We’re gonna celebrate and crack that bottle open. Maybe even try a batch of the cider that’s been going for who knows how long. Probably shit, but we can give it a taste and see.” After an expectant pause, she added, “Are you coming?”

“Oh.” That was certainly _one_ way to get out of her head for a bit. “Um. Yeah, thanks.” 

It had been a while since she’d been drinking, actually. She wasn’t supposed to drink while on medication, and had a serious aversion to vomiting (the Plague had been the absolute worst experience here so far, and Sam tried to block that trial out of her memory). Not to say she hadn’t had a few drinks in the past, despite _technically_ not being allowed to drink. That’s what crossing the border was for. And older students. And parents. She just didn’t make a habit of it. 

But hell, something to help her loosen up? To get her to stop this fixation on killers? Maybe to help her move forward with something else? …Alright. She was down. 

* * *

Turned out, they had a lot more alcohol than Sam had expected. 

It wasn’t the first time someone had stolen a bottle from the ever-replenished trial grounds, not to mention the various camp projects attempting to make their own. They had a few different hard liquors in old bottles, some _potent_ moonshine, and some mediocre homebrews. The cider needed to be cut with fresh juice to make it palatable, and even then it was just barely. 

But it was nice to have a kind of celebratory night. Steve and Min’s trial had been the second to last of the night, and the four that were in the last trial joined them as soon as they were back, as well. 

Sam had never seen the cabin so full, but there was enough space as long as some people didn’t mind standing or (as Kate was doing) sitting on the tables themselves. 

Sam had had… a bit. Maybe more than a bit. Someone had mixed up some trial-sourced brandy with some fruit from the orchard and an extra shot of moonshine, and it was apparently her new favorite thing because she was hoarding one of the jars, drinking straight from it. (Most of them were drinking straight from the bottles or jars that they had, just passing them around, with the exception of any camp-made preparations that had bits that needed filtering.) 

Sam was also… a little attached. To Kate. Drinking generally made Sam a lot more open to touching, a lot less wary, but here it was amplified. Maybe because they didn’t need to eat? Something something metabolism something alcohol something… No clue. But she was open to touching, and less cautious, and she really _did_ like Kate. 

_Kate is also very most definitely not a killer. She is a good person who doesn’t kill people. That’s a good person trait. Not killing people._

If there was someone who was the antithesis of whatever Frank was, it was Kate. And she was _pretty._ He was pretty too, in a different kind of way, but she was, like… _soft._ And _sweet._ And _kind._ And like… a li’l sassy sometimes. Just a bit. A li’l bit o’ sass. 

And at the moment she was running her hands through Sam’s hair, making use of Sam's newly Entity-gifted hair ties, and Sam was way too happy about that. 

“You have really soft hair,” Kate complimented, requesting a tie and sectioning one half away from the other before starting to braid. 

“You have really soft skin.” Wait, that was. “I mean hands. I’m not gonna… I’m not like Leatherface.” Another sip. 

Kate laughed. It was light and melodic and adorable, and it was good that Sam was already blushing from the alcohol, cause that would’ve triggered it as well. “You’re sweet.”

“ _You’re_ sweet. And cute. You’re like…” She should stop talking. Take another sip, just stop talking maybe. 

“Aw, thanks, hon.” The braid got undone, pulled up into a little bun instead. 

“Ooh, early noughties teen idol hair, awesome.” 

Kate laughed again. “I can do that, sure.” Sam handed her another of the precious hair elastics.

She was left grinning into her jar of brandy, enjoying the brush of Kate’s hands through her hair, and the occasional pressure as her shins hit Sam’s back from where she was sitting up on the table. It was all very warm in a very nice way. 

By the time Kate tapped her on the shoulder to tell her she was all done, Sam was feeling delightfully tipsy. Or past tipsy. Whatever her level of intoxication: she felt good. Content. And confident. 

She set down the mostly-empty jar to squeeze at the twin buns she now had perched on her head (like a true girl of the 21st century), then stood and turned back to Kate. She could totally do this. She could definitely do this, she should be finding someone at camp to be the one she’d touch, and it could _totally_ be Kate. 

“You’re…” Sam’s hands hovered awkwardly over Kate’s knees before patting them, awkwardly. “You are a… um…” What was she going to say?

Another charming laugh. Dammit, the girl was just a ray of fucking sunshine. 

“I really like you.” It came out in a bit of a rush, and again Sam was glad for the alcohol, cause her face felt warm and tingly from the blush. 

“Aw, I like you too, Sam. That’s so nice of—”

“No, like—” She looked down at her hands, alternating patting one knee and then the other. “I, like… _like_ you. Like… like like.” She may not have been the most well-spoken at the moment. 

“…Oh. Um…” 

Sam’s stomach started to sink. She quickly put on a casual air. “No, it’s cool! It’s… pshh, it’s _so_ cool. No pressure or… I just think you’re cool, that’s all.” Backtracking, backtracking…

“Um…”

“Kate!” 

Saved by the Bill. (Nah, it was Steve, but wouldn’t that have been a good pun? That would have been an excellent pun, she was so good at this.)

“Aaand I’m gonna go now,” Sam gave one last awkward pat to Kate’s knees. “You just… keep bein’ you.” She shot an awkward pair of finger guns at an apologetic Kate as Steve brought over the treasured guitar. 

Another drink. She could maybe just use another drink. Check the storeroom, grab another jar of whatever the hell she’d been having, that too-sweet grade-A good shit. 

Once in the room her fingers wiggled over jar after jar, checking their labels. They weren’t given dates, just batch numbers, and the general consensus was ‘old ones first’ so she went for something towards the bottom.

As she was unscrewing the lid, she heard Kate launch into some Springsteen in the main hall. 

Not that there was anything wrong with Springsteen! But… well, Sam might prefer to sit out the 80’s sing-along after awkwardly half-confessing feelings to the one who’d be playing them all night. 

_It’s done, though. On the table. Now we move past it._

Her head was a lot more optimistic when she was drinking. At least at the beginning of the drinking. So far, it seemed to be doing great. 

Avoiding the main hall at the moment, Sam kept poking around the room again. She always took particular interest in the miscellaneous items that ended up in the clearing. Some of them were useful - bits of rope or chain or oil, things like that - and others were just mysterious. A ring. An amulet. A chess piece. 

…Or like the tapes. 

Sam watched the door over the lip of the jar as she took a sip and backed up toward the filing cabinet. There had been a whole box of tapes in there. She was almost done with all of the Lost Tapes she’d been given, she’d learned nearly all she had to learn from them, just a few tapes left. But what about these? 

The drawer had been left half-open, so no one had come to check since the last time she was in here. 

No one would notice. …Right? This was fine. This was just… curiosity. If the Lost Tapes could teach them skills, maybe these could, too. Or give some insight to other things about this world. 

And she just really really wanted to listen to them. 

Sam reached in at an angle to avoid jarring metal against metal, plucking up a few of the tapes. (What, picking Frank’s tape? Totally by chance. Just happened to be on top. Not intentional at all.) One by one she slipped three tapes in total into her oversized jacket pockets, continually shooting glances to the door. 

At the last moment, she carefully (or… well, the attempt was careful, she may have knocked against the drawer a bit) pulled the second tape deck out as well. She’d just take her tapes and her player and her booze and go have a little listening party in the woods while everyone else was with Kate. 

Fingers fumbling the lid back on, she put the jar in her other pocket, and tucked the player inside her jacket, ready to Not Be Suspicious out the back door of the cabin. 

On her way out the door of the storeroom she bumped into someone. 

“Sam?”

“Jeff!” She stepped back, wobbling a little, face pink. “I uhhhh. I’m um.” She averted her eyes and dropped her voice. “I’m stealing more drinks I’m sorry I’ll bring them back. I mean I’ll bring…” Her head cocked briefly, working out semantics. “I’ll bring back jars. Jar. Singular. I’m not… I’m not going to… I’m not bringing back the _booze_ part…”

“No, I got it.” He finally interrupted, but by then she seemed to have both feet firmly in her mouth, like some pervert with a fetish. “You alright?”

“I…” Sam reached out a hand, watching as she hovered without touching his chest, before patting him just once. “I’m drunk. I think. Or will be. I’m probably going to sleep in the woods. I will be back before trials. I might catch a bird. Or a rabbit. Or a something that woodses.” Another awkward pat. “…We can’t get alcohol poisoneding, right? Do we know that? You’ve been here long enough to know that.”

Jeff held up a hand for her to wait, then disappeared, reappearing with a canteen. “We can’t die of it, but you should still hydrate.” 

Sam nodded. “This is sense. Yep. Got it. Thank you.” She took the water. She assumed it was water. It was probably water, cause Jeff didn’t seem the type to hydrate with something other than water.

“Have fun, stay safe, sleep well.”

“I like you, you’re cool.”

Sweeter parting words were never spoken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think of Drunk Sam? What do you think of the PAINFUL cringe that is the universal awkward bi experience?


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mixtapes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one. More Drunk Sam. xD

Sam went to the orchard. The orchard was her favorite place, it was the place she liked to be, and it offered a little seclusion for her snooping. 

She was… She really _was_ quite drunk, wasn’t she? How much had she had to drink? She’d started with the whiskey, with everyone else, so a couple swigs of that. And then tried the gin someone found (gross). Then the cider (slightly less gross, but still gross). And then— ohhh, right. A big ol’ shot of moonshine with half a jar of moonshine-spiked brandy to wash it down. That might’ve been what did it. And alcohol _definitely_ hit different here, but she couldn’t tell if it was more or less than the real world. Didn’t have enough to compare it to. 

Her head felt sort of tight and floaty and just a tiny bit spinny. 

She pulled the tape deck from under her jacket and settled herself on the ground, picking out one of the tapes from her pocket. _Julie._ Another Legion member. Did all of them have tapes? 

Sam stuck it in the player, rewinding it and pressing play, starting with the volume all the way down and gradually turning it up. _Music._ Not what she’d expected, actually. She’d thought it would be like the Lost Tapes, some kind of interview or something. But okay. She was definitely happy to listen to music. And it was Joy Division, so, not a bad way to start. Might put her to sleep a bit. But good music. 

She sipped at the water canteen, then the brandy, then the water again, and started picking at the hair ties Kate had put in, loosening them absently. If she did fall asleep here with these tapes, that would maybe not be good. Instead, she stood, starting to pace, holding the cassette player by her head.

Pressing fast forward, she skipped ahead a bit to see what other tracks were on the tape. Oh shit, nice. _Something in the Way._ She had a fuckin’ portrait of Cobain tattooed on her leg; she definitely appreciated that one. But again: she was already inclined to lie down and nap. She really _wanted_ to listen to it, though. It was nice to hear real music again, for sure. Full instrumentation that wasn’t just Kate’s guitar. _Music_ music. 

But for real, Kurt was gonna make her pass out. Maybe try a different tape. 

Sam crouched over the other two tapes, taking another swig of the brandy and picking the rest of her hair out of its styling. She alternated between the two cassettes, tapping her toe gently. _Project Awakening_ or Frank. 

…Oh come on, was there really any question, there?

She still pulled a face. The requisite argument with a person who was not there. But she was seriously curious what would be on his tape. More music? An interview? 

Music. Definitely music. An intro to some song, probably. It started out just a repetitive beat. What the hell. Then words, and she had to turn down the volume, holding it to her ear. She couldn’t tell the language being shouted over the brief beats of guitar. French? Italian? Once the actual song started in earnest, the riff sounded vaguely familiar, even if the lyrics, now in English, didn’t. Who was this? 

She pulled it away from her ear at the blast of guitar and drums, but at least it wasn’t putting her to sleep. Kinda pumping her up, to be honest. Hard not to tap her foot to it. Fuckin’ _high energy._ Not bad. 

She smirked. Of _course_ he was the type to mosh. Of course he was. Calling him a punkass kid was surprisingly apt, given his apparent music taste. 

Confirmed when the next track was almost definitely Misfits. Horrorpunk, then. Great. 

…Actually it kinda was. It was a bit of a bop, to be frank. _Heh. Frank._ Sam snorted to herself, head bobbing back and forth to the music.

It really was energizing. A thousand times more invigorating than Julie’s. She could definitely see it as a pump-up sort of mix. She tucked the player into her pocket to take another gulp of the brandy, foot still tapping to the driving beat of violent percussion. 

It was weird, because - at least from the little she knew about the punk movement - it wasn’t exactly about _straight up murdering people._ Y’know? (Well, some horrorpunk lyrics aside.) Like, usually, there was a positive message under all that hate for the system? And yet: the Legion. Murderers. Just… big ol’ murderin’ punks. Punkening murderers. Punkermurms. Pokemons. …Maybe she should stop drinking. 

Maybe she should tuck in for the night, actually. She was getting kind of dizzy. 

Sam took another swig of water, and hesitated, turning down the player. It was good music, though. And it did tempt her to make all the movements that were making her dizzy to begin with. 

She could just listen quietly. Try to name the other bands. Test her complete lack of knowledge about classic punk. She’d give herself the walk back to camp to listen, and then it was turning off and returning to the storeroom.

_Yes, good, very responsible of you._

Except for stealing it to begin with, but whatever. 

She kept the open brandy jar in one hand and the tape deck raised to her ear with the other, bouncing lightly on her feet as she made her way back to the forest path. 

— _Or not,_ right, redirect, cause that was someone up ahead and she should really— oh no, and the tape player— that would be the hard part to explain, where could— 

_Right,_ the clearing, that was a place, things could just be chucked in there for the time being, this would be fine, just have to step quick quickity quick thataway— _ohwow dizzy hokay._

“Sam?”

Just kept getting caught tonight, huh? This was probably some kind of cosmic sign, most likely about waiting until she was 21 to drink (well, would she _ever_ be 21 though? wasn’t that the real depressing moral of this story?). What was— right, getting caught. She ducked toward the clearing path, sliding the tape deck to the ground and shoving it past the fog barrier with her foot, wincing as she knocked the volume button and trying to cover the brief loud percussion with a hacking cough. 

“Are you okay?”

Sam glanced up, wide-eyed, at her questioner. Ah. Dwight. …Dwight? “‘m good is jus’—” Okay. Words. Use clear words, do not slur. “I’m good,” she repeated, more clearly. “I’ve… had a lot to drink.” That was true. 

“Oh.” He laughed awkwardly, raising a hand to scratch at the back of his neck. A lot less confident out of the trials, that was for sure. “Yeah, I, uh… I know the feeling.”

“…I stole another jar from the pantry, I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

Dwight laughed again. “Don’t worry about it. I was actually just going to the orchard, needed some— Want me to take that?” He gestured to the still-open jar in her hand. 

“Um…” Well, no. “It’s just, it’s actually really good? I didn’t drink a lot at home, but… um…”

He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, I’m not a narc.”

Oh that was… Sam pulled a face. Oh wow, he was kind of cringe, wasn’t he? “I was gonna, um. I was gonna just… maybe sleep out here tonight. Do some uhh forest. Stuff.”

That earned her a confused look. “O…kay? I mean, it’s not like you’re going to get lost or choke or something. There’s not really anywhere you can go. Stay out of the fog, be back for trials…”

They just… didn’t care? Well, Jake _did_ kind of disappear into the forest a lot. They got disappeared for trials no matter what, it wasn’t like they could escape. So maybe he had a point. “Hmkay.”

“…Right. Um. Night, Sam.”

“Night Dwight.” She stifled her snort at that. Rhymes. Oh Jesus she was… she was _real_ drunk. She screwed the cap back on the brandy jar, extra tight, putting it in her pocket. No more of that. Done with that for the next 24 hours (12 hours? 24 hours). 

_This was maybepossiblyslightly a mistake. Just a bit. Tiny mistake. Don’t drink this much. No more straight moonshine especially, that shit is bad news bears._

Noted. Would be noted. Mental note taken, yes. 

Water. She should drink water, dilute the alcohol a bit. 

Without the music in her ear, she was aware of the sluggish thud of her wonderfully unamplified pulse. 

She sat, drinking her water like a responsible adult, waiting. It took seemingly forever before she heard Dwight leave the orchard and head back the way he’d come. 

At long last, she scooted back toward the fog line, the whispers muddled in her head. She’d have to return that tape deck. Which meant she needed the tape deck. And the tape. (She kinda wanted to keep the tape, to be honest. Real music was a godsend. If there— well, no god. But… The music was good, that’s all.)

Sam’s eyes fell to the hard line where the fog didn’t cross. 

Ah. That. That issue, yes. 

Much easier sticking something _into_ the fog than getting it back out. 

_Now, is horror conditioning easier or harder while drunk?_

Had to be easier. She was so very scatterbrained at the moment, it was hard to believe anything could really take purchase there. Even the whispers took too much concentration to focus on, and weren’t exactly doing the best job of scaring her. 

_Okay then. Hand in, grab the tape, hand out. Expect the noises and the flashy pictures and the heartbeat and lullaby and all of that. Expect it. It is expected. Grab the tape deck_ — _Turn it off, that’s probably also important. And then take it out._

Cool, yes, she could do that. 

Another drink of water before pocketing the canteen. Sobriety would eventually find her one of these days. One of— minutes. She would be sober in minutes or hours or minutes. Not days. 

She knelt on the ground by the line, giving herself enough room for her arm to go in without the rest of her following. 

Three two one, and Sam held her breath and thrust her hand into the fog, feeling along the ground for the heavy-duty plastic of the tape player. The music was still playing. A different song now, mixed in with the other noises of the fog.

She almost immediately pulled her hand back out, shaking out her arms like she could shake off the onslaught of hammering heartbeat and flickering hallucinations that came with the first touch of the fog. One more try. Sam sat back and kicked the balls of her feet against the ground like she was psyching herself up for a fight. 

_You got this. Go Sam go. Hand in, grab the tape, hand out._

Yep. Three two one. 

This time, she found the hard edge, and her fingers slipped until they found the volume dial and accidentally turned it up before turning it down to off again. That was done. She grabbed at the corner and tugged. 

It was stuck. 

On what? There wasn’t anything in the clearing— well, not this close to the entrance, anyway. All that stuff was further in. 

Sam frowned. This time, she reached for the far edge of the—

Foot? Eyes went wide and she stifled a yelp in her other hand, quickly drawing back, but not quick enough. Someone was holding her arm, a grip on her wrist that was too familiar by this point.

“Sammy.”

She could hear from outside the fog, but couldn’t see into it. Fuckin’… shit. 

Maybe just give up on the tape deck. Just— forget it?

Sam yanked her arm back out of the fog and was shocked when the hand holding her wrist came along with it briefly before he tugged her back. A tug of war. 

“Are you crossing the line, or not?”

He wasn’t loud, but it was much louder than the lullaby. That felt more like an echo way off yonder-ways than the immediacy that was his voice and the killer heartbeat. Could other people hear him? She frowned, and resisted the urge to shush him. She wasn’t sure if _he_ could hear, either. 

“I’m not going to hurt you, for once.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed at the fog. On the one hand: the whole ‘for once’ part felt about right. But, like… why trust him?

He let out a long sigh, index finger stroking along her wrist. “Cross my heart and hope to die, puppy.”

Sam couldn’t help it: she snorted at that. Any element of _hope to die_ here felt at once very honest and _very_ futile. 

Apparently, she wasn’t answering fast enough, cause there was a quick tug, lifting her arm, and Sam had to scramble to her feet, stumbling past the fog line.

It wasn’t what she had expected. 

Or, maybe it was, she wasn’t sure _what_ she had expected, really. There wasn’t much actual fog, though. She’d thought there would’ve been, but it wasn’t the impenetrable cloud that it had seemed, just a loose mist like most trials had. And when she turned her head, she could see back out the way she’d come. So had he seen her awkwardly kneeling and reaching for the—?

Sam glanced down. Ah. He was stepping on it. That had been the foot that had stopped her taking it, yep. 

“Sammy…” 

She finally actually looked at him, eyes wide in the knee-jerk _what no I’m not drunk I look so sober don’t I?_ face of innocence. “Hm?” He was in that hoodie he’d worn for their one-on-one. The clean one, no blood stains. No mask. Off the clock. 

He raised an eyebrow. 

Was she not behaving right? What was the appropriate—

Sam scowled. Yes, scowling. This was the appropriate response. There we go. Angy. Gr. 

She looked down at the tape player again, trying to kick it out from under his foot. After a couple angry kicks from her, his foot lifted and her next strike sent the thing skidding over the grass further into the clearing. Ah. Shit. Whoops. 

Sam went after it, pushing past him determinedly, trying to avoid all the fleeting thoughts buzzing at the outskirts of her mind. When he didn’t let go, she just dragged him along, eyes focused on the tape deck, trying not to stumble over her own two feet. Act sober. She could totally be sober right now. Very believable. 

She was almost to the tape player when Frank cut his leg in front of hers and kicked it further. 

“This izn’t soccer. I need that,” she grumbled, tripping forward again. 

“Are you drunk, puppy?”

“No.” Yep. Yes yes. Definitely was. Everything she’d had earlier was really hitting her. 

Her hand tugged against his hold, her focus on the ground and on not falling as she moved forward. He’d pushed it pretty far - kind of an impressive kick - all the way toward the rocks and stumps where she’d practiced with the sling. 

“You are.” He was snickering.

“Am not.” 

“Are too.”

Sam snorted briefly at that, but kept walking. At least, until he tugged her off course and she stumbled. 

Frank steered her back against a rock. “Let me see your eyes.”

“You can’t see shit in this light,” she mumbled, dizzy, free hand pushing at his shoulder as she avoided his gaze. It was a little disorienting, the movement. She’d been doing really well just sitting still. These expectations to both move and appear sober were very taxing.

The hand not holding her wrist slipped behind her head, bunching in her hair and tugging her to face him, even as she kept her eyes averted. “Look at me.”

Sam scoffed, ignoring the pleasant shiver the tug at her hair had sent ricocheting down her spine. “Pshh. You just want to pull my hair and stare at me. Obsesstive.” 

“That’s not a word, Sam.”

“ _Obssessedive._ ” Shit no, he was right, there was an extra sound in there. Her face was hot, but that could easily be attributed to the alcohol. 

“You are seriously wasted, aren’t you?”

“Haven’t had a drop, jus’ water. Just,” she corrected herself, fixing her slightly slurred speech as she kept her gaze fixed on his shoulder. So convincing. This… would convince. Yes. 

“Jesus.” Frank was laughing. The hand in her hair tightened again and Sam whined, tightening her own grip in his sweatshirt. “You guys must get the good shit. We’re lucky to get a two-four of Molson in thirty trials and you get, what—” 

Sam wriggled as he ducked closer, turning her face away and squirming as he sniffed at her. “Gross.”

“—what, are you guys making cocktails or something?” 

She chewed her lip, cutting herself off before admitting anything. His closeness was… um… kind of nice? She wasn’t pushing him away, though she probably should be. 

Truthfully, she might be falling over if she weren’t leaned back against the rock with him right there in front of her, and his hand in her hair was kinda doing it for her, putting her in mind of Kate earlier, and that whole disaster— 

Sam groaned, pouting, her words coming out a mumble. “…Stupid people being attractive…” And stupid her, being drunk. Drunk Sam was the _height_ of disaster. It was the touching; she was touchy when she was drunk. It had been a while, but now she was distantly remembering that little detail. Drunk Sam had definitely done some things she’d regretted.

The hand on his chest jolted slightly as he shook with quiet laughter. “Attractive, huh?” It was almost a murmur in her ear, and Sam shivered again. 

He let go of her wrist and she immediately grabbed another handful of his sweatshirt as well. His head was close enough to knock against hers, breath tickling her neck. The hand in her hair loosened, massaging gently as he ran his other thumb over her cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. 

Sam was blushing furiously. Now she probably should come clean about the drunk. He probably knew the drunk part. She was not so great at hiding that. 

“And you call me obsessed,” he murmured. 

Her hips shifted, chewing on her lip again, still looking away from where his face hovered beside hers. 

“Meanwhile here you are, listening to my music, wandering into my turf, calling me attractive— just flirting with death.”

She huffed out a soft laugh. “This izn’t new.” 

“Mhm?” 

Yeah. She was literally always flirting with death. And death was pretty much always fucking her, lately. Fucking her over, at the very least.

“The puppy coming to play with the wolves? Sounds dangerous to me.”

Sam snorted. “Dogs and wolves get along, though.” His logic was so flawed. “Like… in nature. Sometimes. They’re genetic’ly culpable. Capable— compatible.” That was the word. “Make wolf-dogs.”

Frank paused. It was only once he’d stopped that Sam realized he’d been stroking the side of her neck. “…Please tell me that’s what’s on your mind. I can make that happen.”

She snickered. “Ew, no.”

“‘No’? Sammy, you’re the one pulling me to you.”

Really? Was she? 

His point was proven when he drew back and her grip tightened to keep him from moving away. 

Oh. Whoops. Ah shit. That was… bad. 

“…Dammit.” She groaned, head falling forward until she bumped against his chest. “That… umm… fuck.”

“Is that an invitation, or-”

“Frank!”

Sam felt him immediately straighten, his hand pressing the back of her head to keep her down in the shadow of his body. Hiding her? What?

“What?” he called back over his shoulder. 

“I’ve asked you before; please consider that this is a public space. If you and Julie wish to be intimate, please keep to your own estate.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Sorry? Who the hell got him to apologize? The voice wasn’t familiar, but Sam wasn’t sure she’d recognize much at the moment anyway. And Julie? Were him and Julie a thing, then? But then why was he always, like, _this_ -ing with her? 

There was a soft clink of metal on metal in the distance, Frank’s head still turned from her. 

“What—”

His hand covered her mouth quickly, and Sam frowned, twisting in her awkward position to look up at him. The longer he waited the more impatient she got. She licked his palm, like she would with friends in elementary school that tried to shut her up that way. 

He turned back toward her, raising a brow, but still held her head down, out of sight of whoever had called to him. 

Sam glared, and poked her tongue between his fingers irritably. 

“I appreciate the demonstration, I do,” he assured her in a murmur. “Give it a minute.”

Demonst— Oh, ew. Sam’s face screwed up at his implication. She stopped the licking. 

He glanced back over his shoulder, then the hand on the back of her head left to pry one of her hands out of his sweatshirt, squeezing it as he spoke lowly. “Don’t talk unless you want the attention of the Trapper, understand?”

Sam rolled her eyes and nodded— neither action helping with the spins. 

Frank pulled his hand away from her mouth, wiping it on his sweatshirt and grabbing her other hand, before scooping up the forgotten tape deck and pulling her toward the treeline. 

The wrong treeline. 

“Where—”

He shot her a glare and Sam closed her mouth with a click of teeth snapping shut. Right, Trapper. 

She wanted to roll her eyes again, but the first time was disorientating enough, thanks. Instead, she pulled on his hand with both of hers, tugging him down until her face bumped against his ear, whispering. “Where’re we going?”

His opposite hand grabbed her chin to face her forward as he returned the whisper: “ _Please_ shut up.”

He was still leading her straight toward trees. Was he serious? They gave off such massive _don’t you dare_ vibes, and she felt that repulsion, not to mention they were way too close together to let her go through. Sam’s feet tripped over themselves, once more grabbing on to his arm to keep from falling.

_Hey Sam. Hey. Sam. You’re holding his hand. You’re holding a killer’s hand right now. You’re on a date with a killer._

No. That wasn’t. Nope. Not accurate. 

_You wanna kiss him. You do. You wanna touch him cause he’s pretty._

Oh no. Drunk Sam, shut up please. 

_You want touch and all the touchin’ him and you and all it._

That didn’t even make sense. Those words didn’t make sense in that order. 

_Kiss kiss you kiss. Omnomnom face._

Fuckin’ Christ, Drunk Sam was twelve years old. Goddamn moonshine. She closed her eyes, whining as she pressed her face into Frank’s shoulder. Why. Did her brain. Do Drunk. Like this. Agh. She kinda just wanted to pass out. 

In another couple steps, her eyes snapped open. The heartbeat had stopped. 

She glanced around in complete confusion, the sudden motion not helping her dizziness, but there wasn’t much explanation for it. Except… weren’t the trees closer together? She could’ve sworn they were, like… real tight. Just treetreetreetree. But there was a path now. 

She was tripping over her feet again. There was definitely something to take note of, here. 

Frank sighed, like the most put-upon man in the world. “You really are a fuckin’ mess, you know that?” His voice was still low, just a murmur. 

“Same though,” she shot back. “You. Also.” Such a witty retort.

He snorted, then pulled up, putting his back to her and tugging her arms over his shoulders. “Hold on.”

“What-” She stifled her squeak of alarm into the bunched-up hood of his sweatshirt, holding on tight as he scooped his hands under her thighs, pulling her into a piggyback position. 

“Consider it a preview.” She could hear the smirk in his voice as he adjusted his hold, pace steadier once she wasn’t stumbling over herself. “Fully intend for your legs to be around me all night.”

Sam tightened her hold, snickering. “Gross.” She was blushing. 

_You wanna fucc. You wanna fucc the killer. Oohoohoo you wanna fucc ‘im._

Shut up. Yes. Or— No. Ehhhh stahp. 

_Sammy and Frankie, sittin’ in a tree. F-U-C-K-I-N-G._

That wasn’t possible. Not in a tree. Ha: her brain was stupid and didn’t know how trees worked. Sucker. 

Sam was starting to wonder, though. Brief thoughts of hands and mouths and bare skin. She closed her eyes, ducking her face between her arm and the crook of his neck. Horny and sleepy. Peak Drunk Sam. 

She breathed in deep - he didn’t smell like blood anymore, just like boy - and sighed out against his neck, tongue peeking out to lick at his earlobe briefly. 

His groan vibrated at every point she had contact with him, and she shifted in his hold, squirming at the sensation. “You and me, we’re gonna have a lot of fuckin’ fun, puppy.”

Humming, Sam nibbled at his ear, feeling sleepier. Very sleepy. He was comfy to sleep on, she’d bet. She was betting. Definitely. Sleep material. Mattress. Man-tress. He was a man-tress. 

Her breathing evened out, limbs getting heavier and heavier. She fell asleep to pointless repetitive words playing in her head, and the smell of his hoodie and her jacket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this was so long, it may take a bit for the next one to be posted, but I didn't want to chop this in half. 😅 Instead, expect a potential delay to day-after-tomorrow for the next chapter, unless I miraculously have another 20-page writing streak pop up. 
> 
> The tracks I had in mind:  
> Julie's tape: [The Eternal - Joy Division](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3YkutkTQOqc&list=PL5rMk09OCTxUj-yfd8h6tN2EvdqS1JrvC&index=2&t=0s), [Dick - The Dandy Warhols](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QAtTPJPbAnA), [Something in the Way - Nirvana](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MpDrCVRaWfo), [Hurt - Nine Inch Nails](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dlWjY2LaU7E) (and more, but those are what's in mind atm)  
> Frank's tape: [It's Catching Up - Nomeansno](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nLd83SdF6nI&list=PL5rMk09OCTxWGsXAGpYQG4dWsDHNZORlW&index=2&t=0s), [Die Die My Darling - Misfits](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=czIGGIifxg0), [Slaves - Bad Religion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LVZ9o2g-lpE), [Release the Hostages - NOFX](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0ekVunX_0c), [Nitro (Youth Energy) - The Offspring](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=75wjSlubTgo) (and more!)
> 
> Anyway.  
> :3 
> 
> FINALLY, amirite? I just… wanna push their stupid li'l faces together.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a sleepover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this chapter. ><   
> (Also I am so very inconsistent with when I upload things, it really is just impulsive I think…)

“She’s so adorable, can we keep her?”

Someone was running their hand through her hair, and Sam nuzzled closer to the body next to her. 

“No. We’re not keeping any runners.” That was an unfamiliar voice. Girl.

“She kinda is, though.” Unfamiliar voice, guy edition. “They’re cute together.”

“I can’t believe you stole my lay.” Ah. Frank.

“You shouldn’t be having sex with her, anyway, she’s like, barely conscious.” That was the cooing voice again, pressing a kiss into her hair. Familiar. 

“Yeah, well, she was before,” Frank grumbled. “Had her teeth on my ear and everything.”

Sam sighed into the fabric she was resting on. 

“Tits make better pillows.” That unknown girl again.

“Yeah, _I know_ , it was part of the appeal. You think I wasn’t going to take full advantage of that?”

“Frank, if you stop being such a creep you can come pet her.” Susie. That’s who her pillow was. It was Susie, and she was an excellent cuddle buddy.

There was a pause in the conversation. Sam hooked a leg over Susie’s, pulling closer. So close. She never got to be close to anyone. It was so nice to be close. 

“You had a lot to drink, didn’t you Sammy?” Susie cooed, hugging her tight around the shoulders. “And mean ol’ Frank here was going to take advantage of you.”

“I was _not,_ she was entirely into it.” He was much closer now.

“Were you entirely into it, Sammy?” Susie murmured. “It’s okay if you were, but you don’t have to lie for the sake of Frank’s fragile ego.”

“Shut up, Suze.”

Sam shrugged a shoulder, taking another deep breath and sigh, giving a noncommittal hum. 

“Told you,” Susie gloated, and the grin was audible. Susie was so sweet. Sam liked her. 

There was a rustle of movement, and fingers brushed her hair back from her neck, before breath washed over her skin, making her shiver pleasantly. 

“Tell the truth, puppy.” His tone was low and dark and did entirely Wrong things to her. Lips brushed at her ear, then teeth, returning her favor from earlier. “You want me.” 

She felt the blush spreading despite herself, squirming slightly as her toes curled at the way his voice dropped. Fuck. How did he _do_ that? She pressed her thighs together as she ducked into Susie’s chest again to stifle her quiet whine, the hair on her neck standing on end. Drunk Sam was Touchy Sam. Touchy Sam was generally Horny Sam. She knew this. 

“Told you.” His words were a quiet singsong, mocking Susie’s previous statement. 

“Don’t be mean,” Susie chastised, shooing him away with a hand. “Poor girl already has to deal with trials every night without you teasing her.” 

Well, not _every_ night. She had a night off every once in a while. Usually after a sacrifice. Today had been a night off, though, so it was possible to do it not on a sacrifice night. A sacrifice-not. Sam’s shoulders shook in a small laugh. (She shouldn’t, it wasn’t funny. She was still very drunk.)

“Honey?” Fingers pushed her face free of the fabric and Sam opened her eyes briefly, sleepily. 

Susie was cute. Not in a Kate kind of way, but in an _adorable freshman you take under your wing senior year_ kind of way. When she smiled at Sam, those multicolored braces Jeff had mentioned were visible. 

“Okay, not crying, good.”

Sam frowned. “Nonono,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Jus’ a bad joke.”

“Okay, yeah, she’s cute.” The guy from before. 

Sam shifted to glance at the other two voices, and took in her surroundings while she was at it. 

It was the ski lodge again. Only this time, not in total disrepair. No massive holes in the walls, no torn up furniture, pretty clean all things considered. Homey. 

She was lying on the cushions in the conversation pit, Susie closest to the wall and Sam was cuddled up toward the fire. The two unknown voices were standing outside the pit, looking down. Blonde girl in plaid (oh no, another blonde girl in plaid, this could be a problem— though the scowl helped deter that possibility) and black guy in very cool pants. Seriously cool pants. “I like yer pants.” Oh. Said that out loud. Or, slurred it out loud. Whoops. 

The guy cracked a crooked smile. “Fuck, you’re right, she’s wasted.” He laughed, shaking his head, and wandered into a kitchenette that Sam was 100% sure did not exist in the version of this building she’d been in before. 

“Mmmhm.” A hand scratched lightly at her scalp, and Sam’s head rolled toward the fire, only to find Frank sitting between her and it, looking down at her, amused. “Li’l pup got in over her head.”

“Pfft.” She rolled back toward Susie, but her head still pushed back into his hand. (It felt nice! It was nice being touched sometimes! Jeez, give her a break.)

“And when will the pup get sent back to the pound?” The blonde’s tone was irritable, but not necessarily chilly. 

“Nooo,” Susie wrapped her arms tighter around Sam. “She should stay. Sleep it off. We can bring her back in the morning.”

If Sam had to choose, she’d probably go with that as well. This place was a hell of a lot nicer than her cot on the floor of a lean-to. They had full power and appliances and everything. Killers had it good. 

Oh! “Julie,” Sam muttered. That was what Jeff had said. Julie and Joey were the other two. She remembered that now. 

“Aw, she knows your name,” Frank snickered. “See? Learning new tricks already. Can we keep her?”

“Not you, too. I thought you just wanted to fuck her.”

“But she’s so cute, look at ‘er.” The hand that had been scratching lazily at her head moved down to pinch her cheek. “And Susie’s right, she’s basically passing out. Definitely not into that, not unless we’re both stoned out of our minds.”

A sharp breath left Sam in something that approximated a laugh. “Classy,” she muttered. 

“I said _both_.” 

Not the part she meant. She hadn’t actually ever gotten stoned before. Didn’t really intend to start now, not when drinking already had her loopier than fuckin’ Toucan Sam. That made her snort another soft laugh. Toucan Sam. _She_ was Sam. She _was_ Toucan Sam. Absolutely fruit loops at the moment. 

Frank’s hand moved down her cheek, sliding around her neck to run his thumb over the scar there. “What the hell is going on in your head right now, puppy…”

“Toucan Sam,” she murmured, letting out a short _snrk_.

His hand stilled for a second. “What the fuck?” His mumble sounded truly bewildered.

Susie was giggling. “Stop hogging my teddy bear.”

But when Susie tried to pull her away, Sam resisted, shifting to keep her throat in Frank’s hand. 

He chuckled. “Looks like your teddy bear remembers our little history with necks.” He stroked up and down the column of her throat, putting teasing pressure over those same spots as before, in the basement, but only briefly. Just enough to remind her. He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a murmur. “Were you hot for it then, too, puppy?” His teeth closed on her ear again, and Sam bit her lip. Her soft whimpering whine was, quite frankly, mortifying. 

_Hehe. Frank-ly._

So much words play. 

His fingers pressed harder, her pulse getting stronger against his grip, and she could feel his breath. Hungry, again. “‘ _Go to sleep, Sammy…_ ’” It was a coo in her ear that made her shift against the cushions, back arching, feeling the words and the memory straight down to her core. 

Fuck, she had a problem. Oh no. And now he _knew_ about her problem. Shit, _she_ hadn’t known about her problem, not til now, anyway. Always nice and covered by layer upon layer of denial and good common sense. Like it should be. 

…Dammit. 

Spots were blooming on the insides of her eyelids. 

“Please tell me you’re not killing the girl on our couches,” Julie deadpanned. 

The pressure lessened and Sam drew in a long breath. 

“If you get yourself all worked up over her and come to me looking for relief, you’re not getting it,” the blonde warned.

“I can go a night without sex.”

“Oh, I know, but I also know you’re completely insufferable the longer you’re celibate.”

“I have a hand.”

“Two, atch’ly,” Sam mumbled, helpfully. 

“Yeah, two, see?” He let go of Sam’s neck, but without opening her eyes she wasn’t quite sure what he was demonstrating with said hands. She only heard the reaction. 

“Real mature, Fearless Leader.”

“Oh fuck off, Jules, there have been plenty of nights I’ve done just fine on my own.”

“Like we don’t hear you jacking it after a trial?”

“Is there _no privacy_ in this place?!”

“Not really.” Susie was stroking Sam’s hair again. “It’s one of the reasons I spend so much time in the glade, or with the rest of the reapers. Then I don’t have to listen to you two hatefucking.”

“Agreed. My woodworking skills are top notch from the sheer amount of time I’ve spent avoiding hearing anything from Frank’s bedroom,” Joey drawled. “Any of _his_ ‘woodworking.’”

“I don’t have to listen to this slander. You all are a bunch of cockblocks. I’m taking my puppy elsewhere.” Arms scooped under her and Sam curled toward his body, burying her face in his chest. 

“Not your room!” Julie ordered. 

Sam just breathed easily, sleepily. 

“I know, I know! Susie, go get your door.” He was climbing stairs, now. Light footsteps double-timed it up ahead of him. “…Get her stuff, too.” The steps headed back down again.

He carried her like she weighed next to nothing. Just like in trials, how even Susie could lift a full-grown man up onto her shoulder. Susie was like Mighty Mouse. Was Mighty Mouse super strong? Sam only knew about it in theory. But Susie was mighty. And mousy. She was mighty mousey. Heh.

Frank set her down roughly, the mattress creaking as he slid onto it as well, looping an arm around her waist to pull her back against him, his other hand combing through her hair. 

Sam stretched, settling in, back arching and hips squirming as she made herself comfortable for another sleep. 

His low groan hummed against her back, his hand dropping to her hip and squeezing briefly before loosening again. She could hear him swallow hard. His legs tensed, but he didn’t make another move, just breathing hot and slow into her neck.

“Shoo.”

This time his groan was more annoyed. 

“My room, my teddy bear,” Susie reiterated. “Shoo.”

Frank shifted irritably at her back, and teeth grazed the nape of Sam’s neck, making her shiver pleasantly, his hips jarring against her briefly before he pulled away. 

“Scoot. Don’t be a creep.”

“Fine, fine. Fuck.”

“You’ll see her in the morning.”

“Whatever.”

A few seconds later, the door closed. A body eased onto the bed next to her, an arm burrowing under her so she could be hugged properly. “You still awake, Sammy?”

“Mmhm.” Sam hummed, shifting until she was half-laying on Susie to keep from crushing an arm. 

One of Susie’s hands pulled away, and a moment later a pillow was wedged under her neck. “There ya go.”

Sam couldn’t help the small smile on her lips. Susie really was a sweetheart. How did she kill anyone? Her brows furrowed, frowning slightly, the filter between brain and mouth evaporating. “Who’dyou kill?” she mumbled, curiously. 

“Hm?”

“How’d you all get here. Who’d you kill?”

“Oh. Just one guy.”

One guy?

Wait… _One_ guy? And now they were killing people for infinity? For infinite… For eternity? That was the word. Sam had thought there was a serial murder spree aspect to Legion, what with the whole frenzy thing. Just _one_ guy? “Really?”

“Yep. Did it together.”

“…How?” Did she want to know? She didn’t mean to ask, like, if there was some massive murder scheme. She just wanted to know why. She probably should’ve asked why, then. 

“We were breaking into this store Joey used to work at. Frank had dared Joe to tag the place. But there was this janitor there, and he grabbed Julie, and wouldn’t let her go even when she was freaking out, so Frank stabbed him.”

This seemed like maybe an overreaction. Stabbing generally was an overreaction. 

“…I think we were all kind of in shock. But we were there as a team. No one alone, all in it together. We’d started it together, had to end it together. No one could take the fall for all of us. So… we finished the job.” 

She sounded sad. Her voice was hushed, twirling a strand of Sam’s hair around one of her fingers. 

“I think he was already dead when it was my turn. I hope he was. I was… um…” Susie trailed off. “Frank helped.” 

Sam wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, especially not in context.

“Then we just had to clean it up. Bury the body. And somehow we ended up here.”

Sam nuzzled against Susie, humming. “I’m sorry.” And the weird thing was that that was true. No one deserved to be stuck here forever. Or, at least, they didn’t seem to deserve it. Not _eternal_ suffering. 

“Nah, it’s okay. We’re okay.” Not really. They were all trapped here forever. “It helps to just… think of it like a game. Frank taught me that. It’s not real. It doesn’t count, cause everyone comes back.”

Yeah. He’d said that. Something like that, anyway. _They always come back._ So did that mean they’d never had a survivor disappear before? No one who just stopped showing up in trials? Sam hesitated. “…He killed my friend. In our last trial together,” she mumbled. 

“It’s our job.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means…” Susie paused, shifting to hold Sam a little tighter, her voice soft. “It means we have to do it. Or bad things happen.”

Bad things?

“I’m lucky.” She sounded guilty. “We’re a team. Everyone’s work is all lumped together.”

The silence felt heavy. Like Susie was holding something back. 

When she finally spoke, her voice was very quiet. “I think they take the fall for me.” Her swallow was audible. “I let too many runners get out. Don’t make enough hooks. I have to rely on the frenzy a lot.” 

Sam pulled herself closer, wrapping her legs up with Susie’s. Comforting a killer. 

“Sometimes, we get this pull. To the Campfire, but at dawn.” So they _did_ have a Campfire. “And someone always stays here with me when the others go. Usually Julie, or Joey.” Her fingers twitched in Sam’s hair. “They didn’t used to, though. Not at first. …I’m glad they do, now, but… I’m letting them down. I know I am.”

“Nooo.” Sam tried to make her feel better, only distantly recognizing the bizarre situation as she said, “You’re a _good_ killer. You kill so good.” 

An awkward giggle bubbled out of Susie. “I let everyone in our trial together go,” she reminded Sam. “I even tried to let _you_ go.”

Sam wasn’t entirely sure how to encourage her new… friend. To… kill more. 

…It was all very strange. 

“…I got called the next morning, to the Fire. Frank went instead.”

The way she said it, Sam could feel the weight of the statement even if she didn’t quite understand what it meant. 

There was a long pause, and Susie untangled herself from Sam. For the first time, Sam opened her eyes. Susie’s room was cute. Cozy. It obviously hadn’t been made for her, but she’d made it her own. Sam didn’t get much of a chance to look before Susie turned off the lamp that had been lighting the room, and they were plunged into darkness. A blanket was pulled up as Susie cuddled up to her again. 

Sam was entirely ready for sleep, already halfway there, when Susie finally muttered something else. 

“I had a brother, you know.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that. 

“Bailey. Bailey Wood. He was almost four. …I couldn’t stand him, then.”

“How old were— are you?”

“Seventeen. It was a couple months after my birthday.”

There was a somber air to their comfort, now. Something hollow and aching they both shared in the dark. Everyone missed home. At least a little bit, everyone missed home. 

“I’d like to think,” Susie paused, then went on. “…I’d like to think that one day I could’ve been half as good at protecting Bailey as Frank is for me.”

Sam let out a long breath, distantly remembering how soft Frank had gone at the mention of Susie. Like a sister to him. And based on how they interacted, she could see that. Legion was a family. They looked out for each other. 

“Maybe I still can.” 

A lump was forming in Sam’s throat at Susie’s quiet hopeful murmur. Of course they wanted to protect her. Hell, _Sam_ wanted to protect her, and she hardly knew her. She was another one of those sparks in the darkness. Someone who still had something that hadn’t been sucked out of her yet. How long had they been here? And she still had something left to take?

Susie sighed, squishing her cheek to the top of Sam’s head. “One day.”

 _One day,_ Sam agreed, silently. Maybe. One day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a bunch of sillies, some 👀, and some feelings. What do you think? 
> 
> Probably will be another slightly longer upload gap, due to Distractions, but it's still coming along. I'm very excited to be giving Sam another outfit soon (I have a love of styling outfits for her). I kinda wish I could share stuff like that, but I honestly don't know how or why I would, aside from maybe a tumblr post of a polyvore layout or something, idk. 
> 
> Also, did I mention that I commissioned a comic? I commissioned a comic. Probably will get added to the end of the chapter it's from, once it's finished, so look out for an update about that in a future chapter note. 
> 
> But yeah, drop me a comment! Thoughts on the chapter, the comic, the outfits, all of it! Looking forward to hearing from you guys.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and only song mentioned is [No Fkuicgn by Nomeansno](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YaE11LkBz0U). It's loud and vulgar. You have been warned. :3

There was definitely something weird about time here, that much Sam already knew. Their nights were short, but the hours felt so long. She wouldn’t have expected to wake up sober after just a few hours, and yet…

Her head hurt, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as hangovers in the real world. Her face was pressed into folds of fabric, there were warm arms around her, and something that sounded like…

The jazzy tap on cymbals broke into banging snares and shouted lyrics too fast to interpret. It was so loud. Fuckin’ Christ.

Sam groaned, pulling the blanket over her head as someone a few feet away broke down laughing. 

And oh right, the fabric she was laying on was a person. Sam wasn’t sure how she felt about that at the moment, as the arms tightened around her and the figure whined, “ _Fra-ank,_ stahhp.”

Ah shit. Right. Legion. 

…Oh fuck. 

Ohhh. Fuck. Shit. Fuckin’… Oh this was bad. 

Sam’s face flared hot where it was hidden, suddenly remembering the details of the night before. That was… mortifying. Just a little bit. Oh god, she really had just… just grabbed him, hadn’t she? Just fessed right up to her very Problematic attraction. And, worse, he’d taken that as an invitation to… Well, at least _that_ hadn’t happened. But fuck, his hand on her neck and his teeth on her ear had quickly cemented themselves in her sensory memory. 

The snickering laughter must’ve belonged to him, over the rapid unintelligible lyrics that blasted from a boombox by the bedside. 

At least she’d slept with Susie, and not him. And not, like, _slept_ with Susie. Just _slept_ slept. With Susie. Though now Sam wasn’t sure how she felt about _that_ either, now that she wasn’t drunk anymore. She would’ve wanted to get her distance, but hiding her head in the folds of sweatshirt and blankets was the most effective way of blocking out the frenetic noise. 

It was over quick. The whole thing must have been less than a minute. Just one violent wake up call. 

_Could be violent-er. No knives._

Fair. Given her companions? Could’ve been _much_ violent-er. Or, more violent. 

“Up you get, puppy!” 

The blankets were ripped up from the bottom and Sam’s eyes snapped open at the hand grabbing her ankle, tugging Sam down the bed as she let out an involuntary shriek and clutched at Susie to no avail. 

That stupid Entity-gifted strength coming into play. He dragged her down off the foot of the bed and threw her over his shoulder like it was nothing. 

Even in long pants and long sleeves, it was too early for this much contact. While asleep, cuddling with Susie was easy, and drunk _everything_ was easier, but once she was sober and aware of herself again, touching regained its gravity. Not to mention how familiar the position was. She kicked at him as much as she could, too reminded of being carried to a hook, jamming her elbows into his back as he carried her down the stairs.

“Frank you fucking piece of shit, let go of me, I swear to fucking Christ, I will rip your goddamn dick off—”

Her words were cut short, whole body going stiff and face reddening at the sting his hand left on her ass. 

“Did you just—” He couldn’t be… What the fuck. And his shoulders were shaking with barely-hidden laughter. _Oh, fuck you, buddy._ Sam twisted in his grip, grabbing a handful of his hair and yanking his head back, his grip around her waist digging in as he growled.

“You wanna fight, Sammy? I can fight.”

“ _No,_ you can’t,” a voice called irritably. Julie. “We have to get her back to the glade before it closes.” 

_This is fine. So what if there are the other two Legion members and all they’ve seen is you getting carried around by Frank and lookin’ like a thirsty-ass drunk. This is. Fine._

Fuck. 

Sam’s lips were tight as she yanked at Frank’s hair again. “Let me down, asshole.” A knee to the chest emphasized her grumbling. 

He practically skipped down the last two stairs, tossing her unceremoniously onto the cushions in the conversation pit. Sam resisted the urge to rub her ass where he’d smacked her, instead just glaring at him. He was smirking. As per usual, apparently. The fuckin’ dickwad. 

“Sounds like _someone’s_ cranky. What, can’t hold your liquor?”

“Did I throw up? No? Then I can hold it just fine,” she snapped. Still, she was blushing uncomfortably. She _didn’t_ have a lot of experience drinking. They didn’t need to know that. And, by the way: how fucking _bizarre_ was it to be so casually close to these killers? Where the hell was the heartbeat that was supposed to be warning her?

“You’re a fun drunk, Sammy. Or you were until you passed out. And here I was thinking you were ready to finally pay up.”

Pay up?

Apparently he read her wary confusion. “‘Ooh, I’ll do _anything_ ,’” he mocked, simpering. “‘Whatever you want, Frank, just don’t put me on the hook, _please!’”_

He— Oh, how fucking _dare_ —

Sam snatched up one of the pillows, chucking it at him as hard as she could. “Shut the fuck up.” He caught it, easily. Fucker. “That was ages ago. And I only said that because I was desperate.” He’d practically forced her hand that trial.

“You’re _still_ desperate, puppy. Who do you think started this? I’ll tell you one thing; I wasn’t bringing you back here because you were _fighting me off_ last night. Could’ve left you for the rest of ‘em to have their fun, but I thought you planned to make it worth my while.”

Her lip curled. Creep. Such an asshole. 

“He’s lying,” Susie announced, cheerily, from the top of the stairs. “We can’t hurt runners outside of the trials. You might have gotten in trouble, but Evan wouldn’t have hurt you. Wouldn’t have killed you, at least.”

Who the fuck was Evan?

“We don’t actually know that for sure,” Frank argued, looking peeved. That’s what he got for talking like a creeper. “Haven’t had a survivor come into the glade at night, just got the ‘don’t let this happen’ talk.”

Now, that was interesting. So they weren’t _capable_ of hurting survivors or weren’t _allowed?_ Who could even enforce a rule like that? Did the Entity have some kind of enforcement squad? 

That concept brought the very bizarre image of little baby spider-cops to mind, which… was interesting. Sam cleared her throat. And immediately regretted it when the sound drew the attention of all four members of Legion. Which then, of course, made her throat dry again but she couldn’t clear it because she’d _just_ cleared it and wow this was awkward okay she should probably say something but what was she supposed to say when they were just staring at her like that how was she supposed to come up with words to speak to fill the dead air left as they just _stared_ and— “So. Uh. I have to get back.” That would have to do. 

* * *

Sam was surprised just how much preparation went into returning her to the clearing. She was loaned one of Susie’s hoodies and masks for the walk (and yes, it _was_ hard to see in, she couldn’t figure out how the hell the girl did it), and instructed not to speak if anyone that wasn’t Legion was within earshot (like she’d need to be reminded, Sam had enough common sense to figure that part out). 

Apparently, there was a chance they might run into other killers on the way, and survivors in the killers’ forest - while apparently not _impossible_ \- was, at the very least, _highly frowned upon._ There was only a little overlap of paths, and most travel on the paths didn’t happen until full daylight, and the clearing didn’t… ‘open’ for killers until after dusk, but there was still a risk.

The terminology of opened and closed was strange to her, but Sam thought she might have a general idea of how it worked. They had a similar fog to the survivors, just at different times. The shared ground had a handy dandy custody schedule. Dawn and dusk were supposedly dead air, with days being survivor time and nights being for killers. 

It was funny that they didn’t call themselves that. Instead, as Susie had named them, they considered themselves _reapers._ Harvesters, of a sort. And the survivors were runners. Maybe it was just a nicer way to view oneself instead of accepting the _murderer_ label. 

Sam hadn’t expected them to be so human. 

Or had she? Maybe she had, for Legion themselves. But the way they referred to the other killers, as well. Susie seemed on good terms with most of them, on first-name terms, though Sam rarely knew precisely who she was talking about, so she couldn’t tell who wasn’t included. It would be nice to have faces for names, but she didn’t want to cross a line by asking. Sure, maybe her hosts couldn’t kill her, but it was probably better not to push her luck. 

It was still mostly dark when they exited the lodge, dim light just starting to creep into the sky. Sam was surprised to find an exit that more closely resembled a weirdly upscale gated community opposed to the industrial-looking exit gates that appeared in trials. Weirder still was the shift from snowy ski lodge to deciduous forest right at the gate. But that should be normal by now: invisible lines of meteorological phenomena. Snow instead of fog, but it was the same idea. 

Susie had had to stay back, since Sam was apparently assuming her identity for the walk back to the clearing. So it was just her and Frank and Joey. And awkward silence.

Finally, Frank broke the tension. “Ah, another beautiful sunrise we can’t see behind the constant cloud cover. What a lovely grey day. Again.”

Sam was watching her feet. “…Haven’t actually woken up this early since I got here. At home you couldn’t pay me to be up this early.” 

“You guys don’t get summons?” Joey sounded legitimately curious, if politely reserved.

Sam shook her head. “Just for trials. Beyond that, we’re on our own. I think most of the survivors are bored as fuck. We teach each other stuff, but there’s not much to do. No books, no tv, no music— I’m insanely jealous of your boombox.” Even if it _had_ woken her so indelicately. The fact that they had one at all was covetable. 

“Ah, yeah. Reception’s shit, and kind of creepily tuned, but it gives us a soundtrack.”

Reception? “Wait, you guys get radio?” That felt impossible.

“‘Radio’ is an overstatement.” Frank’s words were wry. “No DJs, no news— no commercials, even. The music is inconsistent at best, and straight up _haunted_ at worst. Sometimes it’s just dead air. Creepy as fuck.”

“But sometimes it’s music,” Joey added. “And we can cut mixes and update tapes and stuff.”

“No one to name the songs, though. And a bunch of it is weird stuff. Crackly stuff from the 40s, or weird techno shit. Classics and new stuff and things I’ve never heard before. And then the screaming.”

“Oh yeah, the screaming.” The ease with which Joey agreed was off-putting. Like it was just another cringeworthy annoyance rather than something that sounded vaguely terrifying. 

“Screaming, skittering… Helps to keep an eye on the hours, but even then you can get surprised.”

“…That sounds really fuckin’ weird,” Sam mumbled. Might take some weighing the options for that one. (Who was she kidding, she’d take the radio anyway, regardless of random screaming.)

“Hey, at least we’re not you guys,” Joey’s laugh was almost sarcastic. “Haven’t gotten hunted for sport, so we’re doing pretty well here.”

She grimaced. Yeah. She’d have more of that in her future. Much more. Theoretically, just endless amounts of it. But, from Legion? Were they… Was she friends with them now or something? Was there some kind of deal to be made, to avoid the hook?

“Okay, puppy; strip.”

He had to word it like _that,_ didn’t he. Sam gave Frank a flat look as she pulled off Susie’s mask when they reached the edge of the clearing. It was fog again, from this side this time. She tugged off the sweatshirt and held out her hand for her own jacket, heavy as it was with full pockets. 

The night had been… something else. She wasn’t sure what exactly that was, yet. It still felt not quite real. The idea that she could’ve spent hours with killers and had them _not_ kill her wasn’t _unwelcome,_ just unexpected. 

She shot an apprehensive look at the fog. “So you guys can’t go through it, or what?”

“Nah, we can get into the glade whenever— theoretically,” Joey answered. “We don’t, because it’s really fucking stupid and it would be obvious to runners that we were there, and it’s supposed to be their - your - free space during the day. But we could if we wanted.”

Sam’s eyes flicked to Frank, but he simply held eye contact and made no move to correct his friend. So they didn’t know, then? The rest of Legion didn’t know he’d been loitering in the clearing like a part-time stalker?

“We can’t get to your side, though,” Joey assured her. “Can’t go through the barrier. Physically won’t let us, and mentally feels wrong if we try.”

Sam was pretty sure Frank had, though. Or his hand had, at least, when he’d been grabbing her arm the night before. And _she’d_ been able to cross into killer territory, too, despite a similar repulsion. So there must be some kind of exceptions. 

Jacket back on, Sam hesitated, looking at the fog line. “So I just… walk in?”

“What, you need some kind of door-to-door service?”

Sam refrained from pointing out that he’d basically done just that by walking her here. 

“Don’t tell me you’re ready to give up on the runners already. One night with Susie did all that?” Frank smirked. “Gotta get her playbook. Dirty girl, never would’ve expect-” He cut himself off at Sam’s backhanded smack at his chest, laughing. “What? She’s legal! Past 16 it’s her business what—”

She smacked him again. “I’m insulted on her behalf.” 

His smirk widened. “Why? You’re quite the dirty girl yourself, Sammy, don’t think—” He caught her hand as she swung a third time, pivoting to wrench it up behind her back, dropping his voice as he spoke in her ear. “ _—Don’t think_ I don’t notice how much you like a little— _pain_ —” His point was emphasized as he pushed at the awkward angle, making Sam grit her teeth.

Their little moment of twisted intimacy was interrupted by Joey, clearing his throat. “As adorable as this is,” his tone was flat, “we have limited time.”

It took more than one attempt for Sam to escape Frank’s hold, and once she did she shot him an irritable glare. There was a big difference between playing with knives and getting stabbed. A _big_ difference. Mostly in regards to bloodshed and (more importantly) lethality. She might - _might_ \- admit to some sick thrill having his blade tickling her skin. Shoved between her ribs, however? Not so much.

After just a moment of hesitation, Sam finally gave up and crossed the fog line. 

She was practically _pushed out_ from the last couple feet of tree cover, stumbling out onto the green again. And turning back, the trees seemed impenetrable once more. 

_That’s some Narnia shit right there._

For a moment she simply stood, looking at the Deep Forest. She was still a little out of it, to be honest. Hard to believe she’d spent the night shacked up with four killers and had left perfectly intact and unharmed. Well: with Frank’s last-minute power play the exception— which Joey had seen, fuck. It wasn’t like there was much she could’ve done differently. Maybe she should’ve argued more, or something. She’d been a little distracted by his heat at her back and the sheer annoyance that the presumptuousness of his mere _existence_ instilled in her. 

And also that maybe he was a tiny bit right. 

And wasn’t that just infuriating. 

Letting out a short breath, Sam looked around. The clearing was empty. The mist was dissipating as the sky got lighter. The path on the survivor side was empty, so she could make her retreat without anyone catching her trespassing. 

She was almost to her side of the clearing when she felt the heartbeat and turned on her heel. 

No one was in view, but she knew they were there. In that gap of space between the fog barrier and the treeline. Invisible but present. 

Sam promptly raised both middle fingers as she walked backwards to her exit. 

She might have heard a laugh, but once she crossed the fog line again, it was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Production has slowed a bit at the mo, but expect every other day for a bit while I catch up.  
> Also expect some upcoming whump, you have been warned. :3
> 
> In other news: are people getting notifications? I know that AO3 is doing work right now and emails might be affected. Let me know if you did or didn't get the notification, if you're subscribed. Trying to figure out if it's happening by story sending them or by people receiving them.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the other tapes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one. But pretty necessary set-up.

They’d kept the brandy. 

Not that anyone at camp had thought to ask her for the jar back - she’d snuck back into the cabin and replaced the spare tape player (kept the tapes, though) and no one had said a thing about it - but still. Principle of the thing. 

Sam swore off drinking for a while. And the survivors had depleted a good amount of their stores, too, so no one was offering. The party had put a lot of them in a good mood, though. By the time the nightly trials rolled around, morale was high. 

Maybe it was from a good night’s sleep feeling close to someone, or maybe it was relief that no one seemed to be questioning her whereabouts, but Sam’s performance in trials was surprisingly excellent. Two trials in one night, and two escapes. It helped that she was familiar with the killers and locations, and that she’d picked up a lot more skills since the last time she’d seen those killers and locations. (And she’d had good teammates who were in a good mood and had good tools.) Overall, just a _good_ night. 

She even had gifts in the morning for good performance: her beat up Chucks. Chuck Taylor All Star high-tops, lemon yellow, found at a Goodwill and worn through most of high school and her brief foray into college. They’d faded a fair amount from whenever they were brand new (long before she ever got them), but they were still hers. Still had remnants of sharpie doodles on the rubber trim, with one shoe having dingier laces than the other, thanks to that time she got gum on the laces of one and had to replace them. Another taste of home. Not to mention super-long knit socks that came well over her knee (the secret to wearing shorts or skirts in the fall and winter). It was nice to get a little more of her closet. But maybe it shouldn’t be. Maybe it was just another sign that her stay here was permanent.

One day after the night with Legion. Two days. She found reasons to check the clearing, looking for items to help in trials (and finding them, it wasn’t a completely fabricated excuse), and letting her gaze linger on the tree line. Wondering. Killers could do a thing, sometimes. She’d seen it more than once, now, but would always associate it with her first trial with Frank: something the survivors called standing stealthy. Which was… an interesting name for it. Holding still until their light and heartbeat went away. Creating a false sense of security. Sam could only assume that, if he ever _was_ there, he was doing that. Watching. Waiting. Not moving. Just a silent not-quite-malevolent presence. 

If he was there at all, that was. She could be totally imagining it. Just staring very intensely at nothing. Very possible. The only upside of that was that no one was there to see her looking like a complete idiot. 

She’d lingered on finishing the Lost Tapes. She wanted an excuse to keep the player. She… _may_ have listened to the mixtapes again. It was so hard to resist! _Real_ music, music she liked, music that made her want to _fight._ Listening to Frank’s tape before trials gave her a little surge of energy, a touch of viciousness. And Julie’s may have been a little gloomy, but it was soothing in a way. Then again, there had definitely been points in her life where crying herself to sleep had been very soothing, so… Ah. Yeah… _good times,_ those… High school had been… some kind of roller coaster.

Over the course of just a couple days she figured out where and when were the best places for privacy where she could listen to tapes in peace. Dawn was good, especially on the downstream end of the river by the fog (and the water was nice for sensations and nice for hiding noise from the tapes), and the far end of the meadow in the clearing when it was empty, and the orchard late late at night. It was good that sleep was optional, because her hours were erratic. 

She didn’t actually take a chance to listen to the titled tapes for a few days. She’d snuck back into the storeroom to pick up more tapes, just once. Meant to look for Susie and Joey, but when she got spooked and had to leave quick, she ended up grabbing a spindly-doodled one and another _Project Awakening._

The first _Project Awakening_ tape, once she got a chance to listen to it, was a lot like some of the nameless Lost Tapes: empty air. White noise. Occasional sounds like scratching or warped tape. Tapping. Something that might have been breath, though it was hard to tell. She had to hold the player up to her ear as she sat at the river’s edge, bare legs half-submerged in the running water. 

Whatever it was, it didn’t impart any new knowledge, even when she listened to the whole thing. Just made her feel uneasy. Twitchy. …A little paranoid. And yet she pressed on. 

When the first tape ended, she wasn’t entirely sure what she’d listened to. Nothing? It had been pretty useless. So she went on to the next. 

_“Are you very comfortable, Mr. Dawson? ………Given that your eyes are still moving, I’ll take that as a yes. …Perhaps we’d do best simply confirming statements from the testimony you wrote_ before _the last round of treatment. Blink once for yes, twice for no.”_

It didn’t get any better from there. 

It was vague at first, the detached voice of the… proctor? What was he, anyway? The man reading out the statement. It started with a simple timeline, an explanation of terms for some kind of experiment. 

Very quickly Sam started to hear that same interference on the tape. The white noise, the scratching. The breathing. Tapping. Static. It was hard to concentrate on the words. She felt a humming, buzzing sort of sensation on her skin, in her head. A blankness that made it hard to recall the words even seconds after hearing them. 

She may have flipped the tape more than once. 

She may have listened to it more than once. 

She couldn’t remember. 

Her head was full of tapping and scratching and breathing and static. Buzzing. Frayed wires. 

Sam slipped out of herself for a moment. Or maybe longer than a moment. She wasn’t sure where she went, she just detached from her body, from her thoughts, and was lost. Memories hovered at the edge of her mind but nothing could connect. Dead air. 

She finally snapped back into it when the tape player slipped from her hands and splashed into the water. 

“Shit—” 

The river wasn’t deep where she was, there were plenty of rocks in the way to catch anything moving downstream: she should be able to find it easily. And maybe she could have, earlier in the day. 

When had dusk come and gone? How long had she been listening, playing the same tape over and over again? 

At long last her sluggish responses seemed to mend. Too late, the unease crept in, raising the hair on the back of her neck. She was glad the speaker was underwater. Maybe it would be better if it stayed there. 

…But then she’d be caught out for stealing the tapes to begin with. She’d been warned of this, hadn’t she? Adam had said the spindly-legged tape would ‘corrupt the mind.’ She’d just assumed it was that tape alone. 

Her thoughts were still a bit scattered, a little hard to catch on to and follow through to a conclusion, as Sam stood up in the water and started poking at the riverbed with her feet to find the cassette player. 

It took a second to realize that the cool feeling creeping up her legs wasn’t the water rising. It was the call for a trial. 

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we transition to a bit of whump, friends. Keep an eye on the tags for next chapter.  
> Also: how exactly does one tag for _this_ chapter? Subliminal programming? Conditioning? What's the term to use? If anyone has a clue, hit me up in the comments, I'd hate to accidentally miss tagging something that might need to be warned for. And apologies if you were in need of a warning and I didn't provide one because I didn't know a term for it.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for… uh… a bunch of stuff? Over this chapter and next. Loss of agency horror, flashbacks to mental health trauma, some graphic physical sensations. If there's anything else you think I should tag for after, let me know and I'll add warnings. It's pretty short, though.

Almost as soon as she opened her eyes and came to, Sam knew things were bad. Aside from the already horrible scenario of no shoes and wet feet while trying to complete a trial, she knew just the arena itself was a recipe for disaster. It wasn’t a familiar location, but she knew there were places she hadn’t been, that wasn’t what made it bad. What made it bad was the off-putting familiarity of a building too imposing on the outside for the substandard clinical interior. 

Growing up on the outskirts of major metropolitan areas, the exterior of the building alone wouldn’t do it. Lots of buildings had that look to them: plenty of metro stations, several official buildings in University City. The aesthetic wasn’t unfamiliar. 

And maybe the first room might not have done it, either. Except that there was just a  _ vibe _ to it. Again with the bad vibes, the bad juju. It was familiar in all the wrong ways. The ways she thought she’d blocked out of her memory for good. 

The ceilings were higher here than where she’d been taken in the ambulance. That was… maybe good? And the crows perched here and there (those fucking crows, dammit) were a significant difference, as well. And there was a certain echo of classiness that remained in those few places where wooden fixtures still stood. Hers had been so sterile and institutional. Fitting, really. They didn’t call it  _ institutionalized _ for nothing.

Sam managed the first few steps fine. Her stomach was sinking, but she was fine. Things got harder the further in she went. 

Her pulse started to pick up at the admittance desk, and it wasn’t the killer heartbeat. Her breath was too fast when she started heading down a hallway. By the time she entered a bathroom whose tiles, dirty as they were, very nearly mirrored those in her buried memory, Sam felt her whole body shaking. 

She shouldn’t be here. She’d escaped institutional mental health care. She was outpatient only, she went to a therapist who worked out of a house, not even an office building. The hospital trappings here tugged at her, pulled her back, sent her mind places it shouldn’t be. Nowhere good or useful. 

And something was in her head.

It was like her brain was a Capri Sun and someone just stabbed a straw right in. If whatever was inside was going in or coming out she wasn’t sure, but there was a hole there, and she couldn’t hold on to anything. She was distracted, out of it. Air whistled through her skull. Fear took hold like mold spores, spreading and infecting, blooming, covering every impulse in fuzz, slowing everything down and making all of her sharp thoughts too blurry. 

What had she even brought with her? Did she  _ have _ skills? 

Her thoughts felt like a broken record, skipping and catching and repeating themselves, all the while this  _ openness _ to her mind, this constant leaking of focus and thought. 

What did she have. She had. What did. Skills. 

_ Focus please focus please please focus. _

She pressed her palms against her eyes, fingers pressing at her skull like she could hold it on, hold it closed. Find that tic, that feeling, that ability to read her skills. 

_ Unwilling Survivor. _

Good. Maybe. At least she knew she had it. It was a familiar feel— feel— She knew it now. A feeling she— she knew. 

_ Please focus, please. _

If she knew she had it she could time things out. Focus on— on help— helping others off of hooks and with healing un— until she knew the place better and then she’d help— help with generators. 

_ Oh god, is this how it will be the whole trial? Please Sam please focus, you can’t keep doing this. _

What else. What else. Had she been thinking at all before she was pulled away? Had she had a brain?

_ Fixated. _

Yeah, she’d been pretty fixated on— no, no, the skill, right, she— she could do that. 

_ Iron Will. _

That was— that would— could be funny, even. To think she had that kind of control. But her— head had grabbed onto it so it was there now. Assuming it wouldn’t leak out with the rest of her focus. 

_ Self. _

That wasn’t—

_ Self-Care.  _

Oh. That would be useful, then. 

But until it was, until her teammates needed help, she’d— be useless. Trying to hold on to that one advantage her double-edged skill gave her. She should— should move, should try to learn her way, but she— she hated hospitals with every part of her, every fiber. She fe— feared them. 

_ Move. Move. Keep moving. _

The static in her head… So much static…

And there was the heartbeat at last. 

Hide. She should hide. Stay low, stay quiet, stay—

Sam shrieked as the current pulsed over the ground, a muscle spasm that, while it didn’t  _ injure _ her, made everything tense.

That laugh. Something in her clicked, throat tightening and a sharp jolt of hysterical panic ricocheting through at her at the sound of that laugh. 

_ Don’t hide, run. Runrunrunrunrunrunrun. _

She couldn’t think anything else. It was the clearest thought she had, and even that was being crawled over by static and mold.

She ran. 

Slashes of red glowed in her wake, a trail that would lead the killer right to her, a trail that was always there even when she  _ couldn’t _ see it and now that she could it didn’t  _ help, _ just made her more paranoid. 

She’d been so paranoid. So jumpy. Everything monitored. Couldn’t trust anyone. No one believed her. No one listened. 

Hell. This was more hell than ever before. She was half in this reality and half somewhere else, memories fighting for purchase in a skull that was so open she felt her mind dripping down her neck. No bones. No protection. And those prickling arcs of static stabbing their little tails into every squishy fold, shorting her synapses, frying her brain. 

Was it even behind her? Was it an it? Was it a person? She couldn’t look, just run, just—

She tried to stifle her scream at the sudden figure in front of her, but a whimper still shook her throat, her whole body trembling with anxiety and panic and fear and—

So scared, she’d been so scared and alone and no one would  _ listen, _ no one  _ believed _ her, no one trusted her word and she was  _ trapped, _ so trapped, and couldn’t tell anyone, couldn’t— couldn’t talk, couldn’t speak, couldn’t open her mouth, didn’t belong there— here— there, didn’t belong—

Tears were sliding down her cheeks and she stumbled, lost in debris, sobbing as current surged through her again. 

_ Pathetic. Get out of there. Get out of  _ _ here _ _ , run. You’re not helpless. _

But she was. Sam knew she was, this place  _ made _ her that way, her brain  _ made _ her that way and she couldn’t control it, couldn’t control anything.

She was at once spiraling down and ratcheting up, brain split, sliced down the middle, so  _ raw. _

The strike to her side was a relief, the relocation taking her away from the heartbeat at last. 

She stumbled again, trying to calm her breathing, to stop hyperventilating. 

There. Silence. She knew silence. She swiped the back of her hand across her cheek, clearing the tears. Didn’t do much good, she was still crying, but she was quiet. No one would know. No one would hear. If she turned away from the door they wouldn’t see her. Just her shaking back, as they counted patients, living bodies, made sure that status hadn’t changed in the last hour. Constantly monitored. 

Sam’s eyes were darting around the room she’d ended up in, waiting out her brokenness until she could heal herself up, when she jumped and half started running again before stumbling. The figure was still. Staring at her from across the room, but no heartbeat and no light and no lunging. 

She felt the tension in her body, the rapid pounding of her heart, even if she didn’t hear it the way she did for the real killer. There was still static on her, it hadn’t left. And now anxiety also sent occasional spasms through her, fingers twitching and jaw shut so tight it ached. 

She stared at the frozen figure, trying to reason herself out of it, snap back into reality.

The illusory figure was terrifying. In a way, some part of her was comforted, though, having a better look. Terrifying, yes, but exaggerated. Fake. This wasn’t like real life, she had to remind herself of that. She would never come across this man - his stretched smile and pinned-open eyes - in the real world. It wasn’t like the clean-cut doctors who were doing their best. No one would ever think this man was doing his best. He looked like a torturer, he probably  _ was _ one, and in its own odd way that was a relief. She wouldn’t feel betrayed by a face like that; she’d never trust it to begin with. 

She still kept an eye on it, though. Darting to it constantly as she tried to get her bearings. The Hag could manifest at her traps, maybe this was the same. Sam backed through an open door, rounding a corner to get out of sight of it before pausing to heal herself, fumbling. All of her was shaking. The static was pins and needles at her fingertips, and her brain stem itched like something was burrowing at the nape of her neck. 

She looked around as she worked. Beds. Several of them, all bunked cots.  _ There _ was a difference to grab on to. Bunked. Hers hadn’t been bunked. And they’d been two to a small room, not all of these in one spot. They weren’t like hers— this wasn’t the same. It was a different place. A different place, a different time, a different reality. 

There was a hole in her head, though. It hadn’t gone away, even once she was healed. 

Not a physical hole - she’d checked, her fingers nervously prodding at the back of her skull, expecting a perfectly round peephole - but even without it, that openness never stopped. A window to her brain. A nice little pipeline dripping thoughts and memories in her wake. 

_ Move. Learn. Help. _

There was an aura in her vision, even if she didn’t recall hearing a scream. Someone was hooked and she should help them. It was the one thing she could do that would give her worth for this team while still keeping her ability to flee on impact. The hard part would be finding her way there. 

She moved slower than she probably should, given the protection her ability offered her. She should be running. Running, not looking around. Birds cawed and static buzzed at the edges of her mind and lit signs flickered outside of rooms. Another breathing illusion in her path. 

Was it breathing? It moved like it did, but she wasn’t sure where the noise was coming from. Breathing. Tapping. Scratching. Warped tape. 

Her head jerked to the side in a nervous tic, hands clenching into fists. She hadn’t had that happen in a long time. Tics like that rarely ever happened, except when she was alone and this particular mix of distracted and anxious and paranoid. 

Another tiled room put her in mind of the hospital. The… institution? The ward? She couldn’t remember the name of it, couldn’t remember anything beyond what she’d seen. The front, the intake, the wing she’d been trapped in. The few rooms she limited herself to, hardly speaking, avoiding contact, and attempting to perform normalcy to an adequate degree whenever staff was watching. To prove she didn’t belong there. How did an attempt at behaving normally somehow signal she was unstable? Observation made everything matter, everything counted, no interaction was free from judgment and evaluation. Trying to prove you were sane only made you look worse.

_ Watch the ground, maybe. Watch your feet, don’t step on anything sharp. Don’t look around, don’t remember. _

Every so often she would glance up, to check the location of the aura, check her direction, but she tried to let her eyes unfocus, to not look too closely at anything. 

Until she passed into that round room. 

She felt their eyes even as she stumbled to its center, hesitating on the grating, gaze fixed on the light below.

She was being watched. Observed. Monitored. 

She looked up and felt immediately dizzy. Her head was cracking open and every screen that hung above her, that stared down at her, was breathing into it. Wires like fingers poking and prodding and manipulating, picking the right nerves to pluck and tug and puppet. Open. So open. Malleable. 

Sam was frozen. The images on the screens were just slightly out of sync - too fast or too slow, or a half second behind - for the noises that had been playing in her head for too long now. Breathing. Tapping. Scratching. Warped tape. It was mesmerizing. She needed to watch until they synced up. If they synced up it would get fixed. Whatever it was would fix itself if she stayed put long enough to slot together audio and video. 

Breathing. Tapping. Scratching. Heartbeat. 

Somewhere at the back of her mind it chanted, over and over again.  _ Run. Run. Run. Run. _ The thud of warning, built in to the trial. But the rest of the noise was louder, more overwhelming. 

Cracks and pops and feedback from channels with dead air. 

_ Run. Run. Run. Run. _

Her eyes were fixed on the screens, intent. Willing them to match up. To fit. If they  _ fit _ again, she could move. It would be soon. Had to be soon.

_ Run-run. Run-run. Run-run. _

Sam’s fingers twitched. Put them together. The tapping. The scratching. Fit to the tape. Just  _ fit to the tape _ already. Please fit to the tape. She needed to leave. Red light was coming from somewhere and she couldn’t take her eyes off the monitors to check where. Close. So close. 

_ Run-run run-run runrunrunrunrunrun. _

Terror tightened on her throat but she couldn’t move. Choking on fear. The burrowing at the nape of her neck was back, stronger, like something was gnawing through, to crawl down her spinal column and worm its way into her nervous system. Little crawling things, skittering, tiny legs of static tickling under her skin. She felt infested. 

She convulsed as another surge of electricity crackled across the floor, a muffled gurgle of pain and fear unable to leave her mouth, jaw knotted shut. Eyelids fluttered but couldn’t close. Couldn’t look away from the screens staring down at her.

She was distantly aware of a presence. Someone close. Very close. But the breathing was the same. The tapes. The monitors. Breathing, tapping, scratching. 

All things were wound tight as they could be, a whining in her head like an oscilloscope tuning its frequency higher and higher, piercing her eardrums and stabbing her joints in equal measure. Tighter. Higher. Sharper, with that buzz all around it, vibrating her skin and bones and teeth and all. Every inch of her was charged, arcing connections to whatever was hovering nearby, whatever—

Sam wanted to scream at the hand clamping down on her skull. She wanted to, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. Its - his - hand was so big. Pressing every finger hard against her skin, digging in, each point of contact a ground for the charge to force its way in, coursing through her and making every muscle seize and spasm. Her eyes rolled and the charge was the only thing keeping her standing, the way it puppeted her limbs. 

As soon as the shock stopped, as soon as he let go, she was gone. She collapsed on the floor of another room however far away, still twitching and jerking and shaking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is kind of transitional I think, we'll see. Probably will be quite short, I'm still chopping up scenes for where to place chapter markers.  
> Anywayyy. Thoughts? Is this just scary to me? I find loss of agency very scary, personally, but that might be just me. Gonna be another couple days before posting again, been falling asleep while writing lately xD (usually a good thing! it happens when I'm writing more intimate stuff, so you know soft things are coming :3)


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short li'l chapter here. Avoiding going into too much detail on things, and then setting up the next chapter.

The trial was not a good one. 

The whole time Sam couldn’t focus, kept feeling the pull back to that room, back to those screens. Things were slightly better when she was with teammates, at least when they were able to catch and hold her attention. She still avoided helping with generators, but forced herself to hold back, to guard for fellow survivors and take a hit to give them time to escape. The upside to knowing she’d have time to heal elsewhere. Or hoping, anyway. 

It was one of the most unpleasant experiences of her life, but the plan seemed to be working. That is, until one unfortunate relocation sent her right back to the panopticon. Ensnared, caught by whatever had wired her mind to that place, she couldn’t look away. Couldn’t heal. Couldn’t contribute. Didn’t ever get a finger on a generator or a totem. That was the beginning of the end, and things didn’t get better. They only got worse.

Sam didn’t leave that place for a long time, well past the exit of her other teammates. 

_Hours_ past the exit of her teammates. 

The thing about an ability that seems to break the laws of the trials… Well, it was a curious thing. And the Doctor was a curious man. Keen on experiments. 

She’d tried to game the system, cheat her way to invulnerability, and she’d pushed her luck too far. Should’ve played it safe, should’ve cancelled out her twisted power before it became too late. But once it _was_ too late, all she had was time. Without a Collapse, her greediness was due for punishment. 

If there was any positive to be found in being the personal pincushion of a madman, it was that her old painful memories of places like this were soon supplanted by new ones. And eventually, once he’d run enough current through her to evaporate the rest of the water in her brain, no memories at all. Just that laugh, that mocking pleasant voice, coos of false sympathy and snickers of sadistic glee. Her mind was wiped smooth, not a single thing able to stick, all of it dripping in one ear, out the other. Or was that blood? She didn’t know anymore. Could she bleed? She couldn’t die yet, she knew that.

Sam couldn’t object to his touch - the fingers jabbing at her skull, her spine, the soles of her bare feet - because she couldn’t speak, and she hated herself for that. Especially when the right prodding, the right shock, triggered muscles and contracted them, manipulating her like a puppet. He’d finessed control of her nervous system, and she would dance to his tune whether she wanted to or not.

Soon, her mind was on holiday and her body was not her own. That was the good part: that she wasn’t present enough to fully experience that betrayal. And perhaps that he was more focused on her brain than body. 

* * *

When she finally found herself in the field, in the fog, she couldn’t remember the rest of the trial. He must’ve killed her eventually. He must’ve _mori’d_ her, because she still felt the pins and needles of electricity lingering in her system. Her muscles ached from the currents that had pulsed through them. A splitting headache throbbed in her skull, like something had lodged itself in her brain, little stones wedged into the folds. It was all she could do to keep trudging back to the Campfire. 

The openness was gone, at least. Her mind was her own again, self-contained, the effects of _Project Awakening_ having run out. She _could_ think, she just wasn’t sure she wanted to. In all honesty, she wanted a hug. 

There was only one person who’d seen her broken, and only one person she trusted to see her break again. 

Her hands were clenched into fists, holding in tremors, holding herself together like a bundled blanket. She ignored teammates and went straight for the forest. Straight for the clearing. 

Sam didn’t even hesitate before crossing into the fog. 

She should’ve. If she’d been thinking clearly, she might have realized the risks she was taking, how both survivors and killers might catch her. But she was too focused on holding up her walls long enough to get somewhere safe. 

_Safe._ Wasn’t that an oxymoron. That the one place she felt would be safe for her, right now, was surrounded by killers. Good. They could stab anyone else who came close. And Susie could hug her. She needed to be hugged. She needed to be _grounded,_ to discharge the ghost of static that still haunted her.

Once she crossed into the clearing, the heartbeat was loud, and it’s source was obvious and - lucky for Sam - familiar. 

She walked right past the two girls sitting atop the high rocks, heading for that spot in the opposite tree line that she thought might be the hidden entrance to the Deep Forest.

Whatever conversation they’d been having was interrupted by a surprised, “Sammy?” 

Sam hadn’t realized she’d wrapped her arms around herself until they started to hurt where her fingertips were digging in. It was hard to hold herself together sometimes. She waited, feeling the push and ignoring it, standing stubborn against the repulsion from the woods. She wanted to lift her hand, to push at the air, to try to pass through, but she couldn’t let go yet. Not here. 

The murmured words were unintelligible, but she could tell they were talking to each other. Maybe arguing, maybe just considering. 

Finally, Susie’s tentative hand rested on her sleeve. “You wanna come with?”

Sam just nodded. She’d talk eventually, but not yet. The delay was nothing new, it just took patience. 

Susie’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, and Sam flinched as she started to pull her straight into tree trunks, only— only, no tree trunks. No contact. An illusion, a barrier, to keep smart survivors where they belonged.

Sam was obviously not a smart survivor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready for the comfort half of this hurt/comfort? It's so soft. SO SOFT. AAAAA.  
> Anyway, I'm slow again, but chugging along as one does.  
> If you're worried about missing an update, as always, I recommend subbing and/or bookmarking to keep track. 
> 
> Oh, and fun fact! This fic is now on the _first page_ of DBD results when sorting by comments! (Excluding crossovers, but still!) Thanks everyone for putting me on the first page of anything xD 
> 
> Also, I may have spent time I was supposed to be writing chapter 34 instead setting up [an ask/rp blog for Sam over on tumblr](https://unwilling-survivor.tumblr.com). So uh… if you have any questions ic (or ooc!), or wanna start up a thread, feel free to drop 'em in the ask box, just leave a note if it's about the fic! ^^


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might be the last chapter for a little bit, I want to build up a reserve, but it's a good one! A very good one! (imho)

The walk was quiet, the heartbeat gone on the killers’ side of the fog, just the sound of feet on dirt, and Sam was suddenly reminded that she’d never taken the time to change. Still bare feet and shorts. It was only made more obvious when they passed the gate into Ormond, a slight burn of cold nipping at her toes in the snow. 

Susie immediately steered her into the lodge and right to the fire, plopping her down in front of the warm light and heat. “What happened?”

Finally she was still. Still and safe. Just her and the two girls. 

It was still too hard to talk. Sam just closed her eyes and let out a breath, chin dropping and head shaking weakly. No words yet. 

Susie started to coo something, some reassuring words, but a static shock cracked loudly, arcing skin to skin as she reached to brush Sam’s hair back. “Ow! …Shit,” she mumbled, rubbing her fingertips. There was a moment of hesitation, then a brief breath and a soft, “ _Oh._ ” 

The younger girl sat down and tucked herself against Sam, putting her arms around her again, tilting Sam’s head so she could rest her chin atop it, rubbing soothing circles against Sam’s shoulder. “He can be mean. He got in your head?”

In more ways than one. It all still hurt. She could still feel the echoes of pinpointed pressure, those spots that itched inside her skull. But Sam couldn’t nod, couldn’t quite agree to Susie’s statement. It wasn’t the whole truth. She hesitated. 

“It’s just one trial,” Susie murmured comfortingly, “a few minutes in the grand scheme of things.”

No. Not a few minutes.

Sam distantly heard a door open, then close, but she was distracted. A lump had formed in her throat and she couldn’t swallow it, trying again and again until she had to gasp for air, nearly choking. She felt herself crumbling. It hurt. 

Susie’s fingers paused for a moment as she put together the next piece of the puzzle. “…More than a few minutes.” Her voice was hushed. 

Ow. _Ow,_ why did her chest hurt so much, he’d hardly worked on that at all. Just— just everything else. A body that wasn’t hers. Her vision was blurring, fingers starting to shake. Every part of her was trembling again. 

“Come here.” Susie tugged at her arm and Sam finally let go of herself to slip her arms around the girl in return, the first levee breaking.

Part of her felt stupid for how quickly she was in tears. But there were no comments, no judgments, and when all she was given was soft touches and comforting hums, it was easier to let things overflow. 

She couldn’t quite grasp onto everything that had happened. She didn’t want to, honestly, it may have been an _ignorance is bliss_ kind of situation, but they were coming to her anyway. 

Sam tucked her face into Susie’s sweatshirt, sniffling, hiding herself from the light and clutching harder at the girl who’d somehow become her friend. Couldn’t question that now. Too busy. 

She flinched at memories of tics and spasms and how she’d arched so unnaturally, the fiery current that popped skin from muscle and filled the space in between with sharp stabbing pain. Under the skin. Inside her flesh. She wasn’t particularly skilled at stopping the impulse running through her again, her body needing to twist and warp and snap, jerking in Susie’s hold until her vise grip was returned in kind. Good. Being held together was good, and Susie was stronger than she looked, could handle her unintentional struggling and keep her still and grounded. Sam needed to be compressed back into herself.

If she’d had a voice to give tone to it, her breath might’ve been a whimper, but that was still gone. Had been for a while, tongue cemented to the roof of her mouth, utterly mute. 

The embrace was necessary, and easy to get lost in, focused on the security it offered, and how it forced all her spiraling pieces back in where they belonged. 

A few minutes passed, and Sam thought there might be noise in the background, distant sounds or murmurs, but they were all underwater. There was a ringing in her ears, too close to that oscilloscope frequency that had tunneled into her, and panic constricted her throat again until she could gasp in a breath before her lips sealed shut once more. 

Susie continued her constant stream of shushing and humming. Sound - speech - murmured in the air, but it was unintelligible, muffled, as one of her hands lifted from Sam’s back briefly, gesturing. Finally, Susie ducked her lips closer to Sam’s ear until the sound pulled her attention away from the ringing, registering her surroundings again. “Sammy. Can you hear me?”

Her body still shook and trembled, but Sam managed the smallest nod against Susie’s chest. 

The hand gestured again. 

“ _I_ am going—” more gesturing, “—to go grab you a blanket, but—” emphatic, this time, “— _Frank_ here gives very underrated hugs, so he’s going to take over for a minute, okay?”

Sam didn’t know how to respond to that. Had totally missed him showing up, actually. Unaware of her surroundings. And there was a moment of awkward silence as Susie gestured again. 

“Frank. Is going. To hug you.”

There was a short huff of breath, and Sam would bet it was the man in question. 

“He’s going to do it, because he’s not such a massive asshole not to, and because he’s better at it than he thinks, and because Sam really needs a hug and he’d be a dick if he refused to do it just cause he—”

“Oh my god, fine.” 

Sam likely would’ve recognized the painfully awkward pause after that grumbled response if she had been less concerned with her still-tight grip on Susie. She was distracted, though, when the cushions shifted and a knee wedged up between her and the back of the couch, another leg bumping against hers - denim on bare thigh - as arms wrapped around her waist. After a brief hesitation, a chin propped up on her shoulder, and the sharp breath against her neck could have been a sigh of relief or a huff of frustration. Maybe even something between the two.

She was still holding on to Susie. Susie’s grip had retreated when Frank had taken up position behind Sam, but she was still being held in place. Now it was just a Sam sandwich, and the overwhelming nature of the contact, breaking through all that static buzz, was far preferred to the memories that had been monopolizing her attention. Frank’s presence certainly seemed to pull focus— or, at the very least, attempted to.

She felt a sudden spark in the back of her head, her body giving another involuntary jolt as her mental focus blurred once more, buzzing to tv static again, however briefly.

He pulled his chin away, but the grip around her waist tightened, pulling her back flush to his chest, keeping her secure through another tremor. She heard their words somewhere above her still-ducked head, but didn’t fully register their meaning.

“What happened?” Frank was hushed, and the question wasn’t directed at her. 

“Herman.” Susie’s voice was soft, too.

“…What did he do to her?”

“I… I don’t know. But she was there for a while. Longer than she should’ve been.”

“…shouldn’t be allowed.”

“Anything’s allowed in trial.”

One of his thumbs was idly rubbing against her flannel, his grip having loosened a bit once she’d stopped shaking. He didn’t respond. 

Susie leaned back, gently pushing Sam away, a finger brushing her cheek. “You still truckin’?” When she didn’t respond, Susie tugged softly at a loose strand of hair. “Where are you, Sammy? Come back to us.”

Frank’s chin rested on her shoulder again, turning to brush his lips against her ear. “It’s okay, puppy.” His words were a soft murmur, chest rumbling against her back. 

Her head lolled away, giving him more space to press his face into her neck. The sound, the feeling of his breath on her skin, sent another far less violent shiver through her. So nice to focus on immediate sensations. 

“You’re safe here,” he assured her again, quietly. There was a hint of restlessness to his minuscule shifting of position around her, contouring his body to hers. “We won’t hurt you.”

Susie had stilled, but after a moment of pause she returned her attention to Sam. “Can I see your eyes, hon? Still in there?”

Maybe that would be too many sensations. Her eyelids fluttered, but her eyes were still rolled back, like she was half asleep. She had the vague idea of light, but would so much rather stay blind for a moment. Focus on being held. Being grounded. 

There was a short sigh, then Susie’s hand left Sam’s face to pry her fingers off of their tight hold around her. She held Sam’s hands in hers as she slid off the couch, then let them go. When she was gone, Sam curled up, leaning back into her secondary embrace, arms wrapping around herself over Frank’s arms, holding him there. His chin was bumped away as she tucked herself closer, pressing her shoulder into his chest and closing her fingers around his hands. 

Her breathing was even— or mostly even; any breath that got too deep still shook. 

He pulled away just a bit, just directing his murmured question elsewhere. “Why didn’t the other runners help?”

“Don’t know. I’d assume they were out or dead.” A second’s pause. An unspoken question, maybe. “She hasn’t said anything.”

“…What do you mean?” He must’ve picked up on the weight of the statement.

“Hasn’t opened her mouth once since she showed up in the clearing.” 

There was a slow sigh. Then Sam felt Frank’s breath as he pressed his face into her hair, one long inhale and exhale. He turned away for a moment. “Get her something to eat.” Turning his attention back to her, he rested his chin on her shoulder again and murmured, “We’ll change that.”

He kept holding her. 

When she started convulsing again, he brought an arm up across her shoulders, keeping her still, and she grabbed onto it— for reassurance, not in any attempt to pull it away. It was the most motion she’d made on her own in some time, which must’ve been a good thing. And when the tremors had calmed and she was still again, she ducked her face against his sleeve, resting there and breathing him in. 

She wasn’t the only one guilty of it, either. His face hovered over her shoulder, nose or lips brushing against her every so often. His breathing was more even than hers, calmer, and it gave her something to try to match. 

But when she turned her head, nudged back toward his, the breath stopped and his face pulled back. Sam wasn’t sure what she was waiting for. _If_ she was waiting for anything. She turned her face front again and burrowed into the crook of his arm, and only then did he press his face to the back of her head with another slow breath. 

“Blanket.” Susie was back, though Sam wasn’t ready to make herself fully aware of her surroundings just yet, so she kept herself buried in Frank’s arm. “And snack.”

“Thanks.” 

Was it the first time she’d heard him say that? Might’ve been. And she wasn’t quite in the right mind for the usual snarky observation on that. Still wasn’t entirely present. 

The hand that had been brushing an idle thumb against her waist left, pushing her hair back as he spoke directly into her ear. “Can you eat, puppy?” 

Sam ducked her head, shaking it. Not that she was or wasn’t hungry - hunger wasn’t the same here - but she didn’t want to be any more conscious than she was now. This was the ideal level of comfortable but not caught in her thoughts.

Frank was surprisingly patient, even with his beleaguered sigh. After a pause, maybe expecting her to change her mind, he shifted around and Sam was pulled across his lap, her knees tucking to her chest, still refusing to lift her head from where it was buried against his arm. “…I’m not gonna baby bird this shit for you, Sammy, no matter how cute you are.”

Her lips twitched into a slight smile, hidden in his sleeve, and this time her soft jolt of movement was a weak laugh. Or, really, a sudden exhale that was the closest to a laugh she could get at the moment. It was a good sign, at the very least. Gradually more aware.

The hand not holding on around her shoulders was rubbing idly at her thigh, just maintaining contact, stimulation. It was working, in that respect. It gave her something to focus on. Skin on skin. Something organic and external and _real,_ instead of echoes of manufactured impulses. Her skin was tingling.

“Just leave it.” The words were spoken over her head, and the soft _whump_ of fabric on fabric beside them was clearly the blanket. 

Frank’s face ducked beside hers, forehead resting against her temple as he let out a low breath. Her attention was pulled to him, to the physical. His hands, his chest, his breath heating her neck. He shook his head slowly and she felt every little movement, every brush of his nose in her hair, how his lips ghosted at the edge of her jaw. His voice was quiet and close and hot. “…What the hell am I supposed to do with you, puppy?”

It felt good. _He_ felt good. Solid. Warm. Present. _Safe._ Physical comfort was rare for Sam, and this was… a lot of it. All at once. At a time where she was desperate to focus on anything besides the remnants of fresh trauma. He’d taken on a protective role, and that was probably something she’d been sorely missing. All of these were legitimate reasons she could point to later. 

But in the moment, she was acting out of purely selfish instinct. 

The tiniest motion to raise her head a bit, the gentle turn, and their cheeks knocked together, noses touching, lips brushing for just a moment before Frank pulled back.

It didn’t exactly discourage her. She didn’t actively seek to repeat the brief occurrence - even if the idea certainly flickered in her mind - just curled into him. She shifted her position gradually, melting over his lap, hands diving in to hold onto the front of his jacket as she lowered her chin to press her cheek to his chest. His trial clothes always smelled a little like blood, apparently even once the Entity cleaned them up. She was used to it by now: everything in trial got bloody. It was better than that burning ozone smell and singed skin. Angling her face into his neck cut the metallic tang down, instead surrounding her with that mix of wet wood and heat that was his particular brand of boy-smell, and gave another pleasant rush of skin-to-skin. 

This time it was _her_ breath moving over _his_ neck, and he was unusually still. 

She was resting there for a moment before he finally readjusted his hold around her, fingers slowly combing through her hair. His swallow was audible, and for some reason it made her happy. Couldn’t quite figure out why. Too focused on closeness and comfort and warmth. Sam practically nuzzled against his neck, lips lazily dragging back and forth over his skin. It was nice having something to cling to. Someone. 

His breath was heavy, and his fingers twitched in her hair briefly, tightening for just a second before he quickly let go. But she _liked_ that, that comforting motion, the little bits of pressure reminding her she was here. Sam’s back arched, craning back to press her head into his hand as her grip on his jacket tightened, hips squirming until she got comfortable again.

There was a second of hesitation before Frank finally pressed his face into her neck, another one of those increasingly familiar low groans humming against her skin. His mouth parted for one hot breath before he muttered against her, “You’re going to get me in so much trouble.” 

The words tugged at something in her chest, but Sam wasn’t about to let her brain take over to think about that. Feeling was the focus; not thoughts, not memories, just sensations. 

A pleasant itch tickled at her when his lips opened against her skin, dragging down her throat. There was a brief moment of his tongue just barely teasing her flesh before his mouth closed on her collarbone softly. Her breath hitched for a second before he moved back up her neck, sucking at the underside of her jaw in a way that made her toes curl.

For just a moment her eyes opened, but it was too bright, and she closed them again, ducking towards him instead, and— 

She would probably have been agonizing over this, if she let herself _think._ But Frank’s lips were softer than they had any right to be, and he smelled good and he felt safe - so ironically _safe_ \- and she hadn’t kissed someone in a while. Not like this. Not slow and soft. Her hookups were almost transactional, a sort of Bowie-esque _wham bam thank you ma’am_ that let off all her tension in one go. This was a long fuse, a slow heat that just simmered, spreading through her in a gradual wash of warmth. 

His teeth brushed her lip just enough, and the seal was broken. The breath easing out of her was relieved. Not stopped up anymore. Sam’s arms slipped up around his neck, holding on tight as she pressed closer, touching her forehead to his, another low exchange of breath before their lips met once more.

She wasn’t sure which of them deepened the kiss. It was going to her head, a sort of delirious intoxication, swimming in it. Lips coaxed each other open, a gradual exploration, tasting and lingering. Patient. 

When the hand in her hair stroked at a spot behind her ear, just as he pulled back the slightest bit, a soft tone slipped from her throat. Not quite moan, not quite hum, but her voice was back, and the noise alone seemed enough to agonize him. His grip on her tightened as he let out another frustrated groan, and there was new heat to his attentions. Less patient. Just a little less patient. 

He was hungry for her, that hunger she’d seen in him before, only this time he’d actually had a taste. Or a bit more than a taste, really. Sam may have been lost in it, but it was an indulgent sort of lost, luxuriating in attention and affection and sensation. 

Frank was not lost. In fact, he was quite focused. Quite attentive. And quite _irritated_ as his lips broke from hers mid-kiss.

“Oh for _fuck’s_ sake, not again.”

“Hm?” Sam was pressing her forehead to his, a hand kneading weakly at the back of his neck. It was the closest she’d come to talking all night, just an inquisitive hum.

He pressed back, hand tightening in her hair as he let out a tense breath. His whole body had gone tense, but his mouth was still soft when he took her lips again. Another sharp breath, another kiss. “We’re not done here.” It was a murmured echo of a promise he’d made before. More frustrated this time, though she could tell his anger wasn’t with her. 

_One day you’ll actually follow through on that threat, Frank, and it better be good._

The thought flickered through her head briefly, gone in an instant, mind suddenly keen on the impulse to return his favor from earlier.

She pressed lazy kisses down the side of his neck, humming softly, until she rested her head on his shoulder sleepily. 

“Fuck. These things. Fucking horrible timing.” 

Sam hummed her agreement, though she wasn’t entirely sure what she was agreeing with. She was just so comfortable at the moment. So relaxed. All those lovely pleasant hormones, the warmth of his body, the closeness, the contact…

There was a tense moment of indecision and then Frank let out a tight breath. “Fuck it, you’re going in my room. Hold on.”

She already was, but she was still a little jostled by his change of position, and held on tighter as he picked her up. She was getting used to this, to Legion members plucking her up when she was too weak or too drunk or too tired… It was almost always when she didn’t mind it. (Though, of course there had been just as many times she’d been adamantly opposed to being hefted over a shoulder. It wasn’t exactly the same as being carried like she was some sort of delicate thing, which was actually kind of nice.)

He was in a bit of a rush on their way up the stairs, but she just tucked her face into the crook of his neck and sighed. 

_You’re getting silly._

Oh. That was back. Well, that was no fun.

_You’re really catching feelings for a killer?_

Not now. Things were really nice. He was being so soft and warm and gentle. Now was not the time for her anxiety to wake up again. Or her conscience. Or whatever it was. 

Whatever it was was silenced for a moment as he set her on a bed, loosening her grip around his neck and laying her down. There was a flap of fabric and a blanket settled over her. Sam’s lips curved into a sleepy smile.

Soft. See? He was being soft.

_Yes, but for—_

No. Shhhh. 

Frank’s fingers pushed her hair out of her face, lingering on her cheek. His exhale was sharper than she would’ve expected, and his kiss was rushed, irritated— almost possessive, like he was taking all he could before—

Ah. 

Before he disappeared. 

Sam’s eyes opened blearily to a dark empty room. He was gone for another trial. Another round of murder. And she was warming his bed while he was away.

_That’s fucked._

Shut up. It wasn’t time for an internal debate. It was time for sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3  
>  **  
> _FINALLY_  
> **  
>  Anyway, yeah, stalled out a little on the writing the past couple days, but picked it up again. Real life stress be real life stress, etc.  
> Also, [that ask blog](https://unwilling-survivor.tumblr.com). It's chuggin'. Feel free to [drop any questions for Sam](https://unwilling-survivor.tumblr.com/ask) (either on anon or off), just tag it with [AO3] if you're asking in the fic verse. 😁 
> 
> Don't worry if I don't post for a few days, I'm good, just easily distractable xD

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Subscribe if you want a notification of any new chapters. Don't forget to leave a comment! I'm new to the fandom, and nervous as hell putting out my first DBD fic, so a little reassurance that I haven't fucked up grandly would be appreciated! xD  
> -Turner


End file.
